Page 63 of The False Flat

We picked up right where we’d left off as if I hadn’t left without a word. I told her about the whole trip, though not the reason behind it. I couldn’t mention Grant. No one needed to know about that; he wasn’t an issue anymore. I was over him.

“I’m proud of you,” Deanna told me.

“Thanks. But in a few days, I won’t have an office space anymore because—”

“Because someone else leased it for three months?”

I stared.

Her eyes twinkled, the light catching the moisture in her eyes. “It was William’s idea, actually. We believe in you. If you give up, then I might be tempted to give up.”

That was why I could make this work. She’d surely taken the money she was saving for her B and B and sacrificed, for me.

I’d lived my life alone, unsupported, pulling myself up from my own bootstraps, when I pulled myself up at all. Now, there was a hand on my back, pushing me forward when I didn’t think I could take another step.

“Thank you,” I whispered, and threw my arms around her. I’d work twice as hard because I was no longer just working for myself.

CHAPTER 24

ACT CASUAL × THREE

For three weeks, I communicated with Erin long distance while she prepared for her move, and I put everything into my business. Chad was no longer a client, so I had even less wiggle room, but thanks to little, disheveled Myra, I’d met with and signed two members of his mah-jongg group. I was a long way from where I needed to be, but I felt better than I had in a while.

I’d also successfully avoided interacting with Grant. I’d been so busy that my excuses appeared legitimate—until today, when suspicion had gleamed in Deanna’s narrowed eyes after I’d told her I didn’t want Grant’s help moving some new furniture in. So I’d backtracked, and on this mid-July Saturday afternoon, Deanna was assembling the new kitchen table, and Grant and William (back to his fully clothed, sans acid, and not-jumping-in-pools self) were either chatting with The Nose or bringing in the new couch. I’d sold the chaouch for a fraction of what Chad had paid and purchased a new one, along with some older pieces from a thrift store on Twelfth Avenue. I pretended I wasn’t avoiding Grant, but he looked alarmingly good moving furniture, so I was definitely avoiding him. Erin was due to arrive any second, and my panic over living with someone was a solid distraction from his Michelangelo-sculpted forearms.

I hadn’t lived with anyone since college, and thankfully Silent Selma—a computer science major—had been so shy that we’d only spoken a handful of words during the whole two years. Fate. After that, I got my own apartment.

I ran upstairs and spent seven minutes on my Schwinn, spinning until it hurt, then pushing past the pain until I heard noise below me, people entering, talking.

Downstairs, a group of numbers congregated. The cycling had helped, but if I was going to avoid hyperventilating at the idea of living with someone, they all needed to be numbers.

A squealing three ran across the room and hugged me, physically wrapped her arms around me, and squeezed before I could think.

I’d definitely made a mistake.

“Thank you so much, Pen,” she said. “This is going to be great!”

I nodded and said something agreeable, then looked around for the dog, whom I imagined running up shortly, like his owner, and chewing my face off.

“Where’s Hulk?” I spied the number ten (Grant) on the new couch, cuddling a teddy bear. Where did he get that stuffed animal, and why was he childishly petting it like it was . . . oh, it was alive.

“That’s Hulk.” Erin pointed toward Grant. “He’s actually not that friendly, but for some reason, he likes . . .”

“Grant,” Grant said. “It’s the mustache.”

“He wouldn’t let either of us touch him.” William indicated himself and Deanna, and I expected to need them to be numbers, but I didn’t. They were just William and Deanna.

When I reached my hand out to touch Hulk’s brown, curling fur, he growled and showed his teeth, growing in size, like the Hulk.

Everyone except Erin and Grant stayed away from Hulk as we chatted until there was a knock on the front door.

My stomach flipped because I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone else. The Nose, holding a pitcher of what appeared to be lemonade, stood at the bottom of the steps.

“Hope I’m not disturbing,” she said, and it was the first time I’d ever heard her voice. It was gravelly and cut out in places like a poor radio connection. “Saw those two handsome men lifting that heavy couch and thought you could use some refreshment.”

Grant leaped up and took the lemonade from her. “Thanks, Devina. That was really thoughtful of you, wasn’t it, Penelope?”

I realized then that I’d just been staring like a spectator. All these weeks, I’d silently sort of communicated with my neighbor from afar, and seeing her up close was throwing off our balance.