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Asmyapartmentdoor clicks shut behind me, a pair of battered Chucks step out onto the punny welcome mat across the hall. My gaze skims up to meet Matt’s lopsided grin.
“There you are.” He tugs on a beanie. “Thought you might’ve had enough of your sticky carpets and 8B’s rock music and skipped town again. How have you been?”
I wouldn’t say I’ve been avoiding Matt, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hold my breath and mute the television when he’s knocked on my front door a few times.
The moment he found out I was at the hospital, he turned into Florence Nightingale. He feels guilty because he didn’t know I’d left the wedding, even though it’s my own fault because I didn’t tell him. Although I’m back to my usual self and my wound is barely more than a mark, he’s still checking up on me and bringing me dinner. I’m definitely not complaining about free food.
I decide to move the subject away from my head for once. “What’s up with 8B, anyway?”
It’s a good thing I don’t sleep, because the neighbor sandwiched between Matt’s and my apartments blares out shitty music at all hours.
His eyes light up as we descend the staircase. “Wanna know something crazy?”
“Always.”
“I’ve lived here for almost five years, and I have absolutely no idea who lives there.”
We step out onto icy cobbles under sunny skies. I slow to a stop and squint up at him. “For real?”
Matt slides a pair of Ray Ban’s up his nose. “Uh-huh. Never seen them in the hallway and never seen any letters or parcels get delivered to their mailbox.” He glances up at the building then drops his voice. “Get this. Once, I came home from a night out pretty fucking high, and the music was psyching me out. So, I took a glass and put my ear to the wall. You know that trick, right? Makes everything louder?”
I nod.
“Yeah, well underneath the blaring music, I could hear drilling.”
I bite out another laugh. “No you couldn’t.”
“I’m being serious, Penny. And this was at three a.m. What the fuck are you drilling at three am?”
We fall into step, fighting against the blistering wind as we walk down Main Street. The sun is already sinking toward the horizon, creating a sharp orange glow over the cobbles. “I think you need to lay off the weed.”
“I think you’re right. Anyway, how’s work going? Has Anna said anything about me yet?”
I haven’t had the heart to tell him she’s a massive bitch yet. Especially not when he’s been leaving pizza pockets on my doorstep.
“Ah, you can do better than Anna,” I say breezily. “A guy like you could get Beyonce, if he wanted.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll cross my fingers she swipes right on me on Tinder.”
I’m still laughing as we reach the end of the road. We’re about to part ways, when his attention drops to my wrist. “Hey—nice watch!”
I stretch out my arm and the Breitling winks at me, like we’re in on a private joke.
After a restless sleep, I woke up late this afternoon filled with the hot flames of vengeance. Last night, Raphael had made me feel a whirlwind of emotions. I was irrationally pissed he was with a woman, conflicted that he calmed me down during the thunderstorm, and then crazed when he slid his thigh between mine. His presence filled the phone booth and soaked into my skin, and I hate that it doesn’t wash off as easily as his aftershave.
I’m wearing his watch and I know it’s not just to annoy him, but also because if I’m playing this dance with Raphael, I’m not thinking about Martin O’Hare and him telling national news he’s going to take matters into his own hands. I’m good at shoving bad things right down to the pit of my stomach, as long as I have something to distract me.
Raphael Visconti is a very welcome distraction.
Thanks to my newly acquired timepiece, I’m punctual today, so the sleek staff shuttle is still bobbing at the end of the jetty when I arrive at the dock.
As I’m hoisted onto the craft by one of Raphael’s steroid-induced flunkeys, I’m all sunny smiles and small talk.
Anna’s scowl melts into a smirk as Claudia whispers something in her ear, but then the engine bursts into life under the bench and I find it impossible to give a flying fuck. I close my eyes and bask in the salty assault, finding freedom in tangled hair, wet cheeks, and a numb nose.
There are worse commutes, I suppose. And besides, Martin O’Hare isn’t going to find me in the middle of the Pacific, is he?
The roar of the engine simmers to a shuddering idle, and when I open my eyes, I’m met with a gaze sharper than a needle and just as capable of popping my helium-filled heart.
