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“Do your readers care if you buy a new bed?” Aithan asked.
I cracked up. “I think that part was just for us.”
“Right,” Drew replied. “Though, to answer your question, weirdly enough, yes. They’d probably love a poll about it.”
Aithan shook his head. “Drew, mental whiplash, man. Sometimes we need a transition.”
Drew snapped his fingers. “Keep up!” Then he did it again. “This isn’t the first house I’ve bought, but it’s definitely the nicest.”
Aithan snorted, and it was my turn to shake my head. “Your brain is a bag of cats,” I told Drew.
“You rent your place in New York, right?” Aithan asked.
“Yeah, but I own a building in Brooklyn.”
“What?” I asked. A bag full of catsandsurprises. “Why don’t you live there?”
“With the tenants? Oh, hell no. That’s too easy access for them. I’d get no writing done. I have a property manager on-site. She lives rent free and maintains the building, screens tenants, and all that shit. I go by once or twice a year, chat up the tenants, make sure everything’s cool. Same thing I do with all my rentals. Property manager handles all the bullshit. I show up every so often to be sure everything’s being maintained and no one’s cooking meth. And I give all the tenants a ten percent holiday discount on their January rent.”
“Now that’s pretty brilliant,” Aithan remarked. “Keeps good tenants long-term.”
“Exactly. I want them to feel like the building is their home and they’re secure. I only raise rent to cover increased expenses.”
“It’s still a business,” I said.
“Sure. And I definitely make money. I just don’t get greedy like some landlords. The tenants are financing my buildings and paying for upkeep. I’m giving them a nice place to live. They’re people to me, not cattle.”
“Yeah, that’s like Babcia’s tenants. They’ve been in the building so long, they’re like extended family,” Aithan said.
Whiplash came again as Drew asked, “Babe, will it offend your mom if I skip the pumpkin pie?”
“Why?”
“I kinda hate pumpkin pie.”
“But I’ve been feeding you pumpkin for months. You’re just telling me this now?”
“Pie. It’s just pumpkin pie that I hate. I actually love pumpkin.”
I was confused. “What’s wrong with pie?”
He looked out the window. “It’s the only thing Blue ever gave us for Thanksgiving — cheap-ass pumpkin pie bought on sale the week after the holiday. And she’d sneak it to us ’cause if my dad found out, he’d go berserk.” He paused, then muttered, “That shit tastes like misery.”
I reached back to touch his knee. “You don’t need to worry about the fucking pumpkin pie. I’m making a fruit galette, too. And, to answer your question, no, Mom won’t be offended.”
He squeezed my fingers. “Thanks, babe. You’re the best.”
I faced forward and watched Washington blur. Drew didn’t know how much his explanation tore me up. What horrors had he endured as a boy? How good was he that he listened to me whine about being picked on by schoolmates when his own father brutalized him, his sister, and his mother for eating cheap fucking pumpkin pie?
Maybe knowing he needed to distract me from my spiraling thoughts, Drew said, “Hey, babe, you owe me a favor.”
Aithan glanced at me. “You do?”
“Yeah. For coming with me to meet Tristan.”
Aithan grunted.
I turned in my seat. “Favor?”
