“Maybe that’s what the videos are for. Maybe he’s extorting them so he can live in luxury.”
I sighed. Maybe. “Anything’s possible. People are so terrible.”
“It’s a shame, though. He’s so cute.”
“Is he cute?” I asked.
“You don’t think he’s cute?”
“Sue, I can’t see his face.”
Sue smacked her forehead. “Forgot again.”
“Why can’t you remember this?”
“Let me be your eyes for you. He’s super handsome. That floppy hair. The hipster glasses. Plump lips. Stellar jawline. And he’s very symmetrical.”
She knew that would get me. I always gave extra points for symmetrical. Too many years of art classes.
“And,” Sue went on, “he’s got my favorite kind of teeth. Perfect but not perfect.”
“Like a rabbit.”
“He doesn’t look like a rabbit. I’m telling you, he’s attractive. And he’s got a kind of bad-boy energy. You know—’cause he rides that Vespa.”
“I’m not sure a Vespa creates bad-boy energy.”
“Vespa … Harley Hog … whatever. The point is, he’s good looking.”
“I guess he’d have to be—if he’s thriving as a high-class prostitute.”
“He could just be a playboy, though,” Sue said next, thinking about it.
This was high praise from Sue. “You think he’s a playboy?”
“I mean, who knows? I’m just saying he could just be handsome as a hobby.”
That was true. “Joe the man-whore,” I said, trying on the idea for size.
“I don’t like that word,” Sue said, picking up her phone to pause our FaceTime and research it. She loved looking things up midconversation. “There’s got to be a better word.”
“Joe the libertine?” I offered.
But she’d found a good website now. “How about seducer?”
“Not harsh enough.”
“Player?”
“Too complimentary.”
“If we were in England, we could call him a shag bandit.”
I thought about that.
“Ooh, here’s an archaic one,” Sue said. “Mutton monger.”
But I shook my head with a shiver. “That’s the worst one so far.”
“How about just keep it simple and go with a classic? Womanizer.”
I nodded. Don’t overthink it. “Joe the Womanizer.”
“I like it,” Sue said.
And with that, it was settled. Joe of the bowling jacket was sleeping with half the women in my building, mocking them in elevators the next day, and possibly extorting them for money.
What other explanation could there be?
* * *
DR. NICOLE, HOWEVER, did not agree. “Please don’t call the cops on that poor man,” she responded after I spent a whole session telling her all about it.
“The evidence is pretty damning,” I said.
“What evidence? There’s no evidence. You’re talking about one overheard phone call and a few sightings in the hallway—sightings where you mostly darted into the shadows so he wouldn’t see you watching him.”
I shrugged. “I know what I know. A lot of things don’t add up.”
“Yes. But that’s not him. That’s you.”
“I’m not the person who filmed a sleeping woman in my bed and then made fun of her.”
“But you are the person who just had brain surgery.”
“Are you saying I’m mentally defective?”
“I’m saying you’re in an adjustment period.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Go easy on poor Joe. And go easy on yourself. You can’t entirely trust yourself right now. Your senses are out of whack. Your brain has a lot going on.”
“No argument there.”
“You’re going to make mistakes for a while until you adjust.”
“What kinds of mistakes?”
“Things like not recognizing your sister—”
“Stepsister,” I corrected.
“And not knowing familiar voices. And falling in love at first sight with your veterinarian.”
“I don’t think we can call meeting the love of my life a mistake, but okay.”
But I wondered.
Was Dr. Nicole right? Could I not trust myself?
It was a strange thought. Who on earth could you trust if not yourself?
“Be patient with yourself,” she kept saying.