I’ve never heard him talk so frankly about his family. I want him to go on and on. Selfishly it makes me feel so much better to know that even the rich and powerful have problems. I also want to learn as much about him as possible, storing away each fact and revelation to draw upon later. It reminds me when I was in grade school and there was a kid I liked called Joey. Every little thing I learned about him – that he drank Pepsi instead of Coke, that his mother’s name was Beth – I held onto like gold.
“I guess I’m kind of screwing up your investment though,” I tell him.
“You’re not,” he says. He bites his lip for a moment and I want to do the same. It’s amazing that I’m able to think or feel anything sexual at the moment, given what happened last night and my current, foggy state of mind, but the whole handyman thing really has me wanting it. Hell, at this point, I think I’d want him no matter what.
But as long as he stays on that side of the couch, as long as our relationship never diverts from being good neighbors, then I have nothing to worry about.
So, why am I afraid?
He eventually releases his lip, brows bent in thought. “Can I tell you something and you promise not to laugh?” He catches himself. “All right, well you can laugh but just don’t laugh long.”
“What?” I ask eagerly.
“Well, everyone thinks – assumes – that I bought the building in order to make more money in the end, to have as an investment. But that’s not exactly true. It’s what I want them to think but I have bigger plans.” I stare at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. “You know Richard Branson?”
“The bajillionaire?”
“Yes. That is the correct term, I believe.”
“What about him? Oh my God, are you going into space?”
He laughs. “No. Bloody hell. Space is terrifying.”
“Agreed.” I add, “No one can hear you scream.”
“Right,” he says. “Anyway, Richard Branson, when he was only twenty, set-up a mail order record business. By twenty-two, he had Virgin Records. We all know what happens after that. He invests, he makes smart decisions, he never stops trying new things or learning something new. Nothing is impossible for this guy, not even space apparently.”
“So you want to become the next Richard Branson,” I say. “That’s a great goal but it’s not exactly a strange one.”
“It’s not just that.” He licks his lips and looks off into some imaginary future. “Branson has said, there is no point in starting your own business unless you do it out of a sense of frustration. I bought this building out of frustration but not because I saw an opportunity for myself but because I saw an opportunity for others, one that wasn’t there before.” He looks at me and his eyes are bright sparks of grey and blue. “There is a distinct lack of affordable housing here in the city, especially for those in need. I’ve never seen it so bad before. Normal people can’t even afford to live here, so what about the poor, the ones struggling with families, those that have lost their jobs, their savings, their everything? Where do they go? The Tenderloin? To live on the streets with the crackheads, to share shelters with thieves and addicts? I don’t think so.”
He’s starting to sound worked up and he takes in a deep breath. “I wanted to make a difference. It’s a really long process because you need support from the city. You need investments from people who want to help a charity-type cause. You need a lot of things. But I’m here, I have the building and nothing but time.”
“What happens to the people already living here?”
Bram smiles shyly. “Most of them are already people in need. No one here is paying full-rent. I’m just not sure how long I can afford to keep this up without the city’s involvement. So that’s what I’m working on now. Had a meeting at city hall today.”
“Oh.” I think that’s one of the most surprisingly noble things I’ve ever heard. “And you’re hoping that the tax break you got for letting me live here will allow you to be able to do it for everyone in the building?”
“Tax break?” Then he grins. “Oh, no I lied about that.”
My eyes bug out. “What? Why?”
He shrugs. “Because there was no way you’d believe me if I told you I wanted to help you out of the goodness of my own heart. And if I told you the other truth, you would have run the other way.”
“What other truth?”
“That I wanted to win you over.”
I blink. “That’s why I’m living here? You wanted to win me over?”
“I’ve done outlandish things for a girl before, but nothing like this,” he says, almost to himself. “But yes. I wanted to help you and I wanted you to think of me just a little bit differently. I wanted you to get to know the real me.”
“But the real you is still an arrogant manwhore,” I point out, feeling far too many emotions about this whole thing. Strangely enough, none of them are bad.
“Perhaps, an arrogant manwhore with some endearing qualities.” He waves the drill at me. “Like, being handy.”
“You certainly are handy,” I comment, still feeling out of sorts. Dizzy swirled around. It must still be the hangover. It can’t be learning that Bram did this all for me because of, well, me. “I still don’t know what this has to do with Branson though.”
“He’s a huge humanitarian. He’s been able to do so much with his fortune. I want that. I want both – the money and the means to help.”
“Why is this such a secret? I would think your parents would be proud of you for this. I mean, your father is a diplomat, he must have many ties to charitable organizations.”
His mouth quirks into a quick smile. “Even Linden doesn’t know. No one does, except the city and you.”
“Why not?”
“Because people like to hold onto their ideas of what you are and who you are. They put you in a box and no matter how hard you try to show them what you’re really like, they can’t wrap their heads around it. They won’t. They only want you to be a certain way, the way they see you. To change that messes with their heads. I’ll always be Bram the fuck-up to them, the party-animal, the playboy. It doesn’t matter if I tell them my plans or not, they’ll never take me seriously. I could do this for fifty years, I could become the next Branson, and they would still see me in the box they put me in.”
I can’t help but relate to his every word. I know that the moment I tell people I’m a single mom, I’m slung into a box that I have no hope in escaping. I don’t think many people have met me and then seen that I’m more than just my title, my circumstances.
Not like Bram has seen me. The thought hits me like a bullet.
He’s studying me and when I meet his eye, my face perhaps held in surprise, he clears his throat. “The only problem with the whole thing is that Branson has had a fifteen year head-start. I pissed away my twenties and early thirties on booze, drugs and women. While I obviously enjoyed it at the time – as you know, women are still my weakness – I could have done so much if I had just gotten my head on straight at an earlier stage.”
“You know they say it’s never too late,” I tell him.
“In some ways it feels like it,” he says. “You know I had a great idea a few years ago for a social media site comprised of just pictures. Pictures of me. You know, after a swim, running on the beach, taking off my shirt. I called it Insta-Bram.”
I watch his face carefully, knowing he has to be joking. “Insta-Bram?”
But his expression is stone cold serious. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Then he breaks into a wide, shit-eating grin that lights him up. “Hey, I gotta let my ego come out to play sometimes.”
I shake my head. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best.” He taps the side of the couch frame. “Come on, this couch won’t build itself.”
So we get back to work on the shitty little couch and when we’re nearly done, it really does look like the cheapest crap I could have bought. I’m starting to think about throwing them out and just keeping my torn-up but reliable one.