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“Not really,” I resign. “This one’s nice, and I’d rather get it over with.”
So, we go back downstairs with the leasing lady, and I sign the lease with plans on moving in this weekend.
Xander’s words ring in my head. “Step one to moving on.”
2
TRAVIS BARNES
Every single time I move, I swear to myself it’s the last time. It’s such a tedious, exhausting task. It costs a fucking fortune for no goddamn reason, and if you aren’t able to wrangle some friends into helping out, you have to shell out even more money for overpriced movers.
Thankfully, my sister, her husband, and Xan all offered to help me get moved into the new place. My mom and her husband are puppy sitting Nova for the next four nights while I get settled in. We’re on our last load now, bringing it up in the elevator. Sweat drips down my nape, lines my forehead, and my shirt sticks to my back as I set the very last box down in my unfurnished new dining room. The help is appreciated, but man, I can’t fucking wait until they leave so I can take a shower.
Xander strolls through the place, looking in the cabinets and fridge in the kitchen, turning on the lights to all the rooms. “This place is nice.”
“Yeah, it’s not bad.”
My mood’s been shit all day, and not just from the stress of moving. I had to pick up the rest of my stuff from the house this morning, and Nathaniel said he wouldn’t be there. Of course, when I pulled up, he was. Can’t count on his word for anything, I guess. He wanted to talk, but I didn’t. An argument started, excuses started rolling, and my temper steadily rose for the entire forty-three minutes I was there.
And yes, I counted.
Charlotte’s husband, Greg, sets down a box labeled ‘kitchen,’ wiping his hands off on the front of his jeans. “That’s it, man.”
He’s a nice enough guy. A firefighter. My sister met him at work some odd years ago when the elevator got stuck. He “rescued” her from death—her words, not mine. They got married a few years back in Tahiti. Nathaniel was my date. It was our first out of the country vacation. He flirted with the venue’s bartender that night. Should’ve been a bright red flag indicating what’s to come.
Char steps up to me, a smile pulling at her lips. “Want us to order some Chinese?”
Shaking my head, I rake a hand through my mop of blond hair. I’m due for a haircut, but priorities. “Nah. You guys can go. Thank you for all your help. I’m going to shower, and then spend the evening unpacking.”
“You sure?” With one thick, dark eyebrow quirked, she studies me. Most likely seeing right through me. “I don’t mind staying to help, baby bro.”
Pulling her into a hug, I reply with as much gumption as I can muster up. “I’m sure. I’ll be okay. You should enjoy what’s left of your Saturday.”
“Okay…” She grabs her purse and phone from one of the boxes in the living room. “Well, if you need anything at all, call me.”
Fifteen minutes and one scalding hot shower later, I decide to grab some food from one of the places down the block. My stomach’s grumbling. I haven’t eaten anything since last night. The chilly night air slaps me in the face as I step outside. Throwing my hood over my head and shoving my hands into my pockets, I head left toward a Mexican place I know is down there. Temperatures have dropped, and tiny snowflakes cover the quiet streets in a thin blanket of white.
The restaurant isn’t busy, most likely due to the weather, so I’m in and out relatively quickly. On a whim, I decide to pop into the convenience store across the street from my place, grabbing a couple of six-packs for good measure. Getting drunk and unpacking go hand-in-hand, right?
Crossing the street, I pull open my building’s door, shaking off my head once I get inside. The snow’s coming down thicker now. I wouldn’t be surprised if it stuck overnight. My phone chimes in my pocket once I’m inside the elevator. Juggling the food and the beer in one hand, I take it out, swiping across the screen.
Nathaniel:
Can we please talk? It meant nothing, and it’s hardly something to lose so many years over.
And just like that, my blood pressure shoots through the roof.
Me:
I’m good. Find somebody else to fuck over. Lose my number.
If it weren’t for the fact that we had to figure out what to do with the house we own together, I’d block him completely. But we either have to sell it or, at the very least, get my name off the title. All of which require me to communicate with him.
Not tonight, though.
The elevator dings hitting the third floor, the doors sliding open. I climb out and hang a right, walking down the narrow hallway toward my unit. It’s all the way at the end. As I get closer, I notice the neighbor directly across from me is outside—coming or going, I’m not sure. Even though I’m not in the socializing mood, I decide to do the nice, neighborly thing and introduce myself.
“Hey, man. I’m Travis, your new neighbor.”
