My landlord blinked for about the hundredth time at that point, and I was pretty sure he was either confused or stunned as he pulled his wallet out and slipped his card through the reader, his gaze staying on me for the majority of the time in that long, watchful way that was completely different from the way the older men had been eyeballing me earlier. Not sexually or with interest, but more like I was a raccoon and he wasn’t sure if I had rabies or not.
In a weird way, I preferred it by a lot.
I smiled. “It’s okay if not,” I told him, handing over a small paper bag with his purchases inside.
The tall man took it from me and let his eyes wander to a spot to my left. His Adam’s apple bobbed; then he took a step back and sighed. “Fine. Tonight, 7:30. I’ve got thirty minutes and not one longer.”
What!
“You’re my hero,” I whispered.
He looked at me, then blinked.
“I’ll be there, thank you,” I told him.
He grunted, and before I could thank him again, he was out of there so fast I had no chance to check out his butt in those work pants of his.
Either way, I couldn’t help but be relieved.
That had gone better than I’d expected.
*
I was still in shock over my tutoring lesson when the alarm on my phone went off at 7:25 p.m.
I’d set it so that I’d have more than enough time to finish whatever I was doing—that was putting together a puzzle I’d bought at the dollar store—and walk next door.
Was it dumb that I was nervous? Maybe. I didn’t want to say or do anything to get me kicked out ahead of time.
But I hated screwing up.
And I hated being in a position where I was unprepared.
Most of all, I didn’t like to feel dumb. Yet that was exactly how I’d felt way too many times while working at the shop. I was fully aware there was nothing wrong with me not knowing things—because I was sure I knew a hell of a lot more about a lot of things than other people did. I’d like to see most people work in a music store. Personally, I’d kill it. I’d spent the last decade of my life around musicians. The amount of random knowledge I’d picked up over the years, surprised me. I could keep time and decently play three instruments.
Yet none of that benefitted me at all anymore. I hadn’t even felt the urge to write since that month with Yuki. My words had dried up; I was pretty sure. That part of my life was done now. It wasn’t like I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life anyway. No pressure, right?
So in the meantime, I might as well help my old friend.
If I was going to do that, I wanted to do it well. My mom hadn’t half-assed things, and I had never been the kind of person to do that either. She would have told me to study, to not give up.
And that’s what led me down the stairs and across the gravel driveway, holding a container of blueberry muffins I’d bought from the grocery store after work and the notebook I used to take notes for the hikes I was planning on doing. I thought about the box full of notebooks that I hadn’t opened in a year, then shook the thought away.
I eyed Mr. Rhodes’s truck as I walked past it and knew I was going to the right person.
I hoped.
I knocked and took a step back. About three seconds later, a shadow of a figure appeared down the hall before lights were flipped on, and I took in the size of the body. It definitely wasn’t Amos.
That thought alone made me smile just as he opened the door, didn’t say a word, and gestured me in with a tip of his head.
“Hi, Mr. Rhodes,” I said as I crossed the doorway and beamed up at him.
“You’re on time,” he noted, like that surprised him, as he closed the door behind us. I waited for him to walk ahead so he could tell me where to sit. Or stand.
Maybe I should have just googled all this. Or gone to the library. But I wasn’t a resident yet, so more than likely I wouldn’t be able to get a library card.
“I was worried if I was a minute late, you wouldn’t open the door,” I told him honestly.
He slid me a long look with that stony, hard face as he went around and headed down the hallway. I was pretty sure he even went “hm” like he wasn’t disagreeing. Rude.
I eyed the house again as we moved, and it was just as clean as last time. There wasn’t a single coffee cup or glass of water lying around. Not even a dirty sock or napkin either.
I should probably clean the apartment before he had an excuse to come over and saw the war-zone reenactment that was going on across the driveway.
Mr. Rhodes ended up leading us toward the table in the kitchen that was so scarred, I knew from enough Home Remodel Network that it needed to get sanded and a layer or two of stain. Don’t ask me how it would be done, but I knew it needed it. But what caught me off guard was the way he walked around the back of it and pulled a chair out before taking the one next to it.