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“Right. The tattoos.” The ones she saw when she was in my kitchen, and I was virtually naked. It’s no wonder she can’t look me in the eye at the moment. “Uh—well…” I reach up to rifle my hand through my hair, remember the whole possibly smelly pits thing, and drop it fast. “Yes. Well. I worked in construction before.” I’m telling her too much. Stop telling her everything. She’ll figure it all out. She could sell me out if she does. But I can’t stop even if I want to. Maybe I’ve been left alone for too long with no company but my own, or maybe I really just want to talk to her. “Um—yeah, so it’s kind of a—well, lots of guys get tattoos. It’s not frowned upon, right? I have this friend, and we decided to get our last names tattooed on our shoulders.”
“Your last name?” She sounds shocked again, even though she’s now studying her feet and carefully not looking at me.
“Yes. Our last names. I don’t know why since it’s never going to change. My last name already belongs to me, but now it’s written across my shoulders, so it’s not like I’ll ever forget it.” I laugh at that, but Lu-Anne still doesn’t look up. Things are getting awkward really effing fast, so I keep talking. Because, you know, talking non-stop about nothing usually fixes everything. “I’m a carpenter by trade, so I have a tattoo of that on my back—a carpenter at his workbench doing woodworking. It reminds me of my dad too. He’s always doing hands-on stuff. The angel on my side and the roses are for my mom. She went through a cancer scare. Well, it was more than a scare. She actually had a lump removed and had to go for chemo, but she’s been cancer-free ever since.”
Lu-Anne finally looks back up at me. “I’m sorry,” she says, and out of all the people who have ever said they’re sorry for anything, she’s the most genuine by far. “Are you self-employed?” It’s an odd question, and I don’t know how to answer it, but she takes my silence the wrong way and rushes to add on an explanation. “I mean, you seem to keep odd hours. You said you’re a carpenter. You’re not working right now?”
“Er—I needed a bit of a break from my job. Things went to pot if you know what I mean. Sometimes, that happens in the industry. Lay-offs and bad decisions, or you finish a project or whatever.” Lu-Anne stares at me blankly. Of course she doesn’t know. “I took the house on as a project. I’m hoping to renovate and re-sell it.”
“Oh. So, you’re not sticking around?”
I’m not sure if I detect disappointment in her voice or if it is just wishful thinking on my part.
“I’m not sure. It depends. I don’t plan on leaving Chicago, though. I have family here.” I wish I could stop giving out personal details, but I can’t seem to stem the tide, so they just keep on coming.
“Oh,” she responds quietly after a brief, tense silence. “Well, I hope everything goes well. I mean, the renovation. The flip. Whatever you call it. I hope you can sell the house when you want to.”
It’s starting to look like a good idea for me to get going. I really need to take a cold shower since I’m starting to sweat even though the damn AC is obviously working. No, not starting. I am already sweaty. It was a good idea not to raise my arms after all. It will also be a good idea to leave before I blurt out my entire life story and wreck the cover I’ve worked so hard to construct.
I shove out of the chair, and Lu-Anne looks up at me in surprise. “I should be going. Get back to work and all that. Being on your own schedule and being your own boss is sometimes tough. I don’t want to start slacking off. If the AC acts up, don’t hesitate to come over and let me know.”
I stalk over to the door, grab my toolbox, and get ready to make a fast getaway.
“Okay, thanks,” Lu-Anne says as I reach the door. “Have a good night.”
“You too.” I let myself out into the sticky and overly warm summer evening.
That went well, you idiot. I pep-talk myself all the way back to my house. I spilled enough details tonight to seriously put my real identity at risk. Like my name. My real damn name. And the fact that I have family here. It wouldn’t take much for Lu-Anne to jump on the old internet, do a quick search, and come up with the whole story.
Back at the house, I tackle tearing up a few more carpets just to work out my annoyance at myself. I have a big garbage bin to fill up after all. I tell myself it’s why I need the distraction. Not because I can’t stop thinking about my spider fearing, kind of crazy, hella-beautiful neighbor who could very well be my downfall.
