The guys are almost out the door when I ask, “Oh, did you bring the extra boxes?”
Pat shrugs and looks back to his helper, who says, “Yeah, they’re in the back of the truck. Want them up here?”
If either of them thinks this is strange, they don’t let on. “No. You can leave them on the sidewalk in front of my car.”
I follow them back outside. As they unload the stack of flat cardboard, I walk to the back of my car, where I retrieve a small black bag from the cargo area. I thank them again as they climb back into the truck. There are only a few things left to take care of.
The layout of the apartment is simple. Front door opens to a small living room with a kitchen against the back wall. A narrow hallway leads to a bathroom and bedroom. Beige carpet meets beige linoleum meets beige walls.
In the kitchen area, I unzip the black bag and remove four menus from nearby restaurants and three pictures I printed from the kiosk at CVS of Ryan and me, plus seven magnets to hold each item in place on the refrigerator. Next, I grab the assortment of condiments and pour half of each one down the sink drain before lining them in the door of the refrigerator. Moving to the bathroom, black bag in tow, I pull out the shampoo and conditioner then pour half of each down the drain like I did with the condiments, before putting the bottles on the edge of the tub. Unwrapping a bar of Lever 2000 soap, I set it on top of the drain in the sink and turn the water on, rotating it every few minutes until the logo is gone and the edges are dulled, then drop it into the small built-in space on the shower wall. Toothpaste is last. Starting from the bottom, I squeeze a portion out but leave a glob or two on the rim of the sink, just like I do at Ryan’s house, even though I know he’ll fuss about it. Leaving the cap off, I drop the tube on the counter near the faucet.
Last stop is the bedroom. I pull out an assortment of wire and plastic hangers, the last items in the bag, and space them out on the empty metal rod. Back in the small living room, I scatter the neat pile of boxes around until the floor is littered with them. I pick two boxes, one filled with books and one filled with an assortment of old perfume bottles, and pull them open. The box with books is easy to unpack so it’s only a minute or so before I have several small piles next to the box as if I haven’t gotten around to packing them yet.
The perfume bottles take a little more time. I move the box to the small kitchen counter and unwrap the four on top, setting them down on the Formica surface. The light from the window hits them just right, and the thin, colorful glass acts like a prism, shooting rays of blue, purple, pink, and green around the dingy room.
Of all the shopping I did this week, the perfume bottles were the hardest and, surprisingly, the most fun to find. It’s a fluke, really, that I even needed to search for them, but after running across a Facebook post Ryan was tagged in, I knew this was just the sort of item I needed to “collect.” He had gotten his mother one for her birthday last year. It was an Art Deco piece, a ball of etched glass wrapped in silver and adorned with small, mirrored squares, and looked exactly like the type of gift Jay Gatsby would have given Daisy. It was beautiful, and from the smile on her face, she loved it.
And if I was the type of girl who collected things, this would definitely be it.
I survey the room a final time. Everything looks exactly as I want it to. That I’m all packed except for the few lingering things I didn’t get to, a few random possessions left to put away.
“Knock, knock,” a voice says from the doorway, and I spin around. It’s the woman who works in the office of this complex, the woman I rented this apartment from on Monday afternoon.
She steps into the room and looks around at the mess on the floor. “I was worried when I hadn’t seen anyone here since Monday.”
I slide my hands into my front pockets and lean back against the wall next to the kitchen counter, crossing one ankle in front of the other. My movements are slow but calculated. It worries me she’s here, checking on me, and that she’ll feel the same need to do so on Saturday, when Ryan is here moving me out. I picked a place where neighbors don’t bother to get to know one another, and the rent includes utilities since units can be leased by the week. And one week was all I needed.
It must have piqued her interest when I rented one of the few unfurnished units. Usually if someone goes to the trouble of moving furniture in, they plan on staying longer than seven days, but I didn’t want Ryan to think my life was so transient that I didn’t even have my own couch so the furnished unit wasn’t an option. And here we are on day four and there’s nothing to show for my stay except eight boxes, strategically placed around the room.
Her hand runs along the top of the nearest box and she’s eyeing the perfume bottles on the counter. I know her type. Her makeup is heavy, her clothes tight, and once upon a time she would have been considered pretty, but the years have not been kind to her. Her eyes soak in everything happening around her. This is the sort of place that is rented for illicit purposes, and she rules over all of it, constantly on the lookout for any situation she can use to her advantage. And now she has crossed the parking lot and walked right into my apartment because she knows I’ve got something going on but can’t figure out how to use it against me.
“Just want to make sure you’re getting settled in,” she says.
“I am,” I answer, then glance at the name tag pinned to her low-cut blouse. “Shawna, your concern is unnecessary. And unwelcome.”
Her back stiffens. My brusque tone is in opposition to my relaxed stance. She walked in here thinking she owned this situation, understood it on some level, but I’ve thrown her.
“Should I still presume this unit will be empty and your key returned by five p.m. on Sunday?” she asks.
“As I presume there will be no more unexpected visits,” I answer, tilting my head toward the door and giving her a small smile.
She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, then turns to leave. It takes everything in me not to throw the bolt closed behind her. But I’m almost finished here, and there’s still more to be done before Ryan crosses the Louisiana state line at five thirty this afternoon.
Chapter 3
Ryan’s grandfather passed away three years ago, only a year after his wife, and left Ryan his home along with every piece of furniture, every dish in the cabinet, every picture on the wall. Oh, and a hefty sum of cash too.
From the way Ryan tells it, one day he dropped by to check on his grandfather, only to find he had died peacefully in his sleep, and then a week later Ryan was moving in. The only possessions he brought with him were his clothes, toiletries, and a new mattress for the bedroom. Ryan probably would have made room for an ugly second-hand couch . . . if I had one.
His street is lined with large oak trees, their branches shading every inch of sidewalk. The neighbors are all older, more established, and love to tell me how they’ve watched “that sweet boy” grow up since he was a baby. This is the kind of house you live in when you’ve finally made it. When you’ve had a couple of kids and the pressing fear of not being able to pay your bills lessens and no longer has the ability to suffocate you.