He shrugs. “I’m going to assume now that you can hear me.”
“I use earplugs,” I tell him. Which is true. I use them every night and shove them so far down I’m pretty sure they might come out my nose one day. As soon as I get more money, I think I’m going to take stock in an earplug company.
“Too bad, you’re missing quite the show.”
I give him a dirty look. “Did anyone ever tell you how inappropriate you are?”
“Yes, many times.” He jerks his chin at me. “But knowing your wall is just as thin, don’t feel like you have to be quiet when – if – you ever bring a man over. I don’t mind. I like to listen.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Why is it so hard for you to stay decent?”
“Must be in my genes,” he muses, leaning against the doorframe, jutting out his pelvis just so. I refuse to look even though I agree with his statement.
“Do I dare ask what the other thing is?” I say. I don’t even know why I’m humoring him and not shutting the door in his face. I’d hate to think I find something fun and amusing about our little interactions. He’s kind of like the kid in grade school who used to pull your hair.
“Ah, yes,” he says with a wicked grin. “Given the lack of sexual activity in your apartment and your refusal to take even one peek at my knickers, I’m curious if you’ve ever had sex before. I mean, I know you have a daughter but you hear about these virgin births all the time.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I tell him, opening my door and quickly jetting inside, shutting the door hard behind me.
As my cheeks flame, I can hear him say on the other side, “There’s the girl I wanted to see.” Then the sound of his own door shutting.
What an asshat. I mean, I know he’s fucking with me like that kid in grade school, only pulling more than just my hair. But man, does he know how to get under my skin. Just because I’m not fucking everything that walks – or him – doesn’t mean I’m some uptight, virginal prude.
Unfortunately, I also know he’s kind of right. Because in the last few years, I’ve been heading in that direction. Even though I’m not fat, I used to be way thinner and toned. Now, I’ve got cellulite on my thighs, an ass that won’t stop growing and stretch marks and a C-section scar on my poochy stomach. I’m sure I could make it work for me if I wanted to, it’s just that it’s so hard to look back on the person I was – happier, better – and be okay with what I am now. It’s like admitting defeat.
The last thing I want is to strip naked with a guy and it’s unfortunate that the last guy I wanted to do that for was Bram.
Crap. Maybe I really should go hook up with some random just to get Bram’s legacy out of my damn head.
“Mommy.”
I look over and see Ava on the couch, staring at me curiously. I realize I’m leaning back against the door as if Bram’s going to burst inside at any moment. I straighten up and shoot her a bashful look. “I’m okay,” I tell her.
“Was that Bram?” She pronounces his name with extra care now, wanting to get that “R” in there.
“Yes,” I say cautiously. I don’t like how she still continues to stay gaga over him. I don’t want to have to be nice for her sake and with him being the only male she really sees, the last thing I want is for her to see him as a father figure.
“Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!” she sings loudly, popping Snuffy up and down. “Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!”
Ding dong is right.
“All right that’s enough,” I tell her. “How about we use our quiet voices, okay?”
“Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!” she yells, running to her room and giggling.
I exhale, unfold the newspaper at the kitchen table and start searching for a job.
***
It’s about two in the afternoon and I’ve circled every job I’ve seen fit in the paper, even those I have no experience in like waitressing. I’ve sent out every résumé and cover letter and crossed my fingers a million times. Now Ava is racing around the couch, stir-crazy from boredom and I feel like I need a dozen espressos to even get through the rest of the day. At least she’s stopped singing her Bram song.
A knock at the door. I feel like I’ve spoken too soon.
I get up to answer it, giving myself a once over in the vintage mirror on the wall. I don’t look half-bad. I guess it helps that after our earlier altercation, I had a long shower and made a full-hearted attempt to make myself look prettier. My hair is wavy with just the right amount of product. I’ve shaded in my brows more (apparently one of my better features according to most women), put on a few strokes of mascara and a plum lip stain. My skin started going crazy during pregnancy but thankfully it’s calmed down and I don’t have to wear foundation much. I also skipped the blush since I have my cheeks to thank for that.
I open the door and am not surprised at all to find Bram on the other side. Once he sees me his eyes widen appreciatively at my face and then at the rest of my body. I’m just in leggings and a long sleeveless tunic, but it’s a step up from pajamas.
“Well, hello there,” he says. He holds out a bottle of wine. “Peace offering.”
I purse my lips. “Peace offering?”
“Yes,” he says, shaking the bottle at me. “Have you had the Don Melcher before? It’s brilliant.”
“It looks expensive.”
“It is,” he says and smiles. “But I feel I need it make it up to you.”
“For what?” I want him to say it.
“For being a right prick,” he says. “And for standing there with my dick on display. I shouldn’t tease you with it.”
My eyes narrow momentarily.
He catches himself. “Sorry, sorry. I will behave from now on, I promise.”
“Yeah, right.”
He crosses his heart. “I swear. The minute I say the wrong thing, you can kick me out.”
“Don’t bet I won’t.” I sigh and step out of the way, letting him come inside. That fresh and woodsy scent, reminiscent of something I can’t place, but something that once made me happy, wafts past and I can’t stop myself from closing my eyes briefly and breathing it in.
Thankfully he doesn’t notice as he comes in and places the wine on the kitchen table.
Unfortunately, that kitchen table seems to have had it and one leg breaks from under it. Bram manages to grab the wine before it crashes to the ground with it.
“Fuck,” I swear and Ava comes running out of her room.
“What was loud?” she asks and then she sees Bram. Her eyes light up like a candle. “Bram!” she yells and runs over to him.
He stares down at her, smiling, while I quickly close the door and assess the damaged table.
“Bram, Bram, Bram!” Ava shrieks.
“How are you, little one?” he asks her, clearly enjoying her attention.
“I wrote a song for you, Bram,” she says excitedly.
He looks over at me. “Oh really? So, she’s written me a song, but you haven’t?”
I roll my eyes and put my attention back to the table. Though the leg snapped off from the bottom, I think I can glue it back together.
“Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!” Ava starts singing at the top of her lungs. I ignore her and pull the leg out from under it then head to the “Drawer O’ Crap” in the kitchen to find the crazy glue.
“That’s a very nice song, Ava,” Bram says. “Completely original.”
“Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!”
“Don’t encourage her,” I mutter and then Bram is beside me.
“Crazy glue?” he asks, looking over my shoulder. “You need a new table, sweetheart.”
I push past him and head over to it, Ava still singing her song and jumping up and down. “If you haven’t noticed, I can’t afford a table at the moment.”
“I’ll get you one,” he says.
I bristle. “You’ve done enough.” And I really need to keep my debt to him as low as possible. But I realize I’m sounding bitchy again, so I say, “Once I get a job, I’ll head to Goodwill and see what I can find.”