Page 65 of Trusting You
“Don’t patronize me with your ‘just friends’ talk. This neighborhood notices things, including a small child this golden man is now carting around that you must have something do with.”
“Oh, she’s not…I’m not…” I hate denying Lily as my own, as my heart beats truly for her. But it’s impossible to ignore the facts, considering I have to leave her behind.
“I’m not her mom,” I finish.
Pierce sees more than he lets on. He allows silence to hang in the air between us, a subtle gesture asking me to keep going, but when I don’t, he doesn’t press.
“Well,” he says as he gets up. “You three are welcome here any time.”
“Thank you, Pierce.”
“Uh-huh. Now, scoot. I have some artwork to sell to stressed-out caffeine addicts.”
Smiling, I make my exit, but not before leaving a few bills on the table for the espresso and excellent service.
Pierce could be a friend, if I let him. A confidante. Maybe the kind of person I haven’t had since Paige. He’s making it clear.
I take to the streets on a long-held sigh.
If I’m not careful, I’m going to start to like it here, and that would be the worst kind of self-destruction.
* * *
I spendthe rest of the afternoon cleaning.
Locke is refusing rent while I stay, so I try to be relevant in other ways, like have him and Lily come home to a spit-shine of an apartment.
Except, forget about digging into corners. All I have to do is brush a cloth over the hardwood, and it comes up black.
“God, Lily has been crawling on this?” I ask myself.
It’s not that this place wasn’t clean when Lily and I first moved in—that I know. It’s what I’m slowly coming to understand: No matter how hard I scrub or how much I pick, these New York buildings are so old and crusty, black soot is permanently wedged into every crevice it can find.
And any time construction starts nearby, a fresh coat of gray dust will go on top.
I sit on my haunches, dirtied cloth at my side, and wonder if I can make an exception just one time to use bleach instead of the all-natural, not-toxic-in-the-least, environmentally friendly baby products that are fully stocked in this place ever since Lily came into the picture.
Maybe this once. In the bathroom, where Lily rarely, if ever, goes.
I tuck hair that’s escaped from my messy bun behind my ears and go in search. I start under the sink in the bathroom, and, finding nothing but disposable razors and men’s body wash, I make a mental note to add bathroom cleaning products to Locke’s woefully lacking stock.
I can’t help but pop open the lid to his body wash and take a deep breath in. That’s him—his smell. It’s way better on his skin, but this small whiff sends tingles down my spine.
A nose remembers, and I know any time this scent drifts near, I’ll think of him.
At that unwanted thought, I slam the lid closed and shove it back in its place.
Stop with the empty fantasies.
Rising, I clomp over to the kitchen sink, thinking maybe, in a two-bedroom apartment, that’s where other homelike products will be.
I prop open the door and bend down, hair escaping again, and scrape it back with one hand while rifling through with the other.
Plumbing solution falls on its side, as well as some WD40. Who the frick knows why he needs that, and reach all the way into the back and hear a hollow clonk.
I pull out the empty gallon and cock my head.
Antifreeze? Why does Locke need that? He doesn’t have a car. I don’t claim to know anything about New Yorkers’ habits, or why he’d want an empty jug of it in the first place. I unscrew the lid, peering in. Definitely, strangely, clean and empty. I put it back where I found it.
While I’m continuing to scour, I happen to glance at the oven clock and swear.
I’m meant to meet Astor in an hour.
That gives me barely enough time to shower, dry my hair, and look somewhat like a girl who would love a night out with her best friend’s baby daddy’s sister.
The mere thought has me slamming a palm to my forehead. I get up from my crouch and head to the shower, all the while chanting, stop picturing your best friend’s baby daddy naked.