Lifting my fist, I hesitate, thinking back to the text I sent Perry an hour ago: I heard what’s going on. I’m so sorry. Can we talk?
He never responded.
I can’t blame him. As far as he’s concerned, I’m his brother’s girlfriend, and his brother just royally screwed him over. He probably thinks I only want to talk to him to plead Devin’s case, which I imagine he doesn’t want to hear. If I were him, I wouldn’t want to talk to me either.
Disappointment lances my chest and I rub my thumb over my knuckles. Coming here tonight was a gamble, but I have to try. If Perry wants to save his business and his home, he needs to act now. And I won’t let him give up without a fight. I just hope he’s willing to hear me out.
Forcing some steel into my spine, I rap my knuckles against the door. A dog barks from somewhere inside—it must be The Colonel. I jolt. The Colonel. I can’t believe I remembered his name for once. The music switches off, footsteps approach, and the door swings open to reveal Perry standing in a dim hallway.
He’s barefoot and wearing his usual worn jeans and T-shirt, but his expression is completely foreign—the antithesis of the Perry I’ve come to know and like. The joy has winked out of his eyes like an extinguished candle, his cheeks are hollow, and his lips are twisted into a pained frown. “Oh, it’s you,” he says flatly. The Colonel saunters up from behind him and wags his tail when he sniffs my sneakers.
“Can I come in?” I ask.
“Is Devin with you?” Perry peers around my shoulder to the empty staircase behind me.
I swallow hard. “He’s outside.”
“Whatever excuse he sent you to make, I don’t want to hear it.” Stepping back, he begins to close the door, but I shoulder forward, blocking it with my foot.
“I’m not here to make excuses for him. What he did was wrong. He should have told you about your dad’s plan from the start.”
Perry knits his eyebrows. “Why are you here then?”
“Because I have an idea for how you can save Blooms & Baubles.”
Perry’s lips part and he stares at me for so long I have to resist the urge to fidget. Finally, he shrugs and opens the door wide. “Come in then. I have to warn you though, I’m not the best company at the moment.”
I step into the apartment and follow him down a short hallway into a clean, light-filled space consisting of a kitchen and living room. A long wooden countertop with a farmhouse sink and a four-burner stove stretches along the entire back wall of windows. It’s dotted with flowering potted plants and overlooks his backyard greenhouse and the stately maple growing just outside his cracked wooden fence. A mishmash of multicolored dishes, mugs, and cups occupy the open shelves that flank the white, magnet-filled refrigerator, while a tall butcher’s block island doubles as a table, two low-backed stools pushed neatly underneath it.
In the living room, a television is tucked into a corner between a potted palm tree and a carved fireplace, which is capped by a round antique mirror. Two armchairs, one high-backed and blue and the other short, round, and forest green, sit kitty-corner next to a worn cognac leather sofa pushed against a wall filled with artwork and framed photographs—Perry’s gallery wall. Warmth fills my belly when I spot my painting among the eclectic mix. It’s located near the center, a clear focal point illuminated by a pair of skylights overhead.
Perry’s apartment isn’t quite how I imagined it, but somehow it suits him perfectly. His family’s deep connection to this place is evident in every piece of hand-me-down furniture; every mismatched vintage dish; and in every scuffed, weathered floorboard, worn smooth in sections by the innumerable people who have trodden the same paths for decades.
The Colonel trots over to a beige dog bed in front of the fireplace and flops into its cushiony center with a huff while Perry strides over to the thick mahogany coffee table, scoops up a plate of half-eaten chicken and risotto, and deposits it in the sink. His jerky movements ignite a fresh wave of nerves, and I hover in the space between the living room and kitchen, unsure whether to sit, stand, or give him the hug he so clearly needs. I split the difference by taking a hesitant step forward.
“How did you even find out about the whole property-stealing plan anyway?” he asks with his back to me. “I can’t believe Devin told you.”
My thighs tighten painfully. “He didn’t. I was at the meeting with your dad and Councilman Truman today.”
The dish he’s washing clatters in the sink. “What?”