I don't even bother waiting for the elevator in my building. On a good day and at off-hours it's slower than molasses. At six o'clock on a Friday I don't think I'll ever see it, especially since there's a moving truck outside. Some poor soul is about to realize that their bed, couch, dresser, and every other heavy item they own won't fit in the shoe-box elevators. Poor thing.
I take the steps two at a time. I like to pretend it's my exercise. I'm winded by the time I reach the sixth floor, probably because I haven't gone for a run once since I left Maine. It's stupid, but running makes me think of Paul.
So do turkey sandwiches.
And books.
And military uniforms.
And anyone with blue eyes.
I round the corner toward my unit and nearly collide with a pile of moving boxes. It would seem the new resident is on my floor.
Please, please, please don't let them be a weirdo.
As long as it's not an aspiring musician, I'll be fine. I already have one of those living next door. She claims to have future in "folk rap." Yup. That's apparently a thing. And I get to hear her practice.
Like I said, I need that wine.
A burly-looking guy with tattoos comes out of the newly occupied apartment to pick up a couple of boxes. He gives me a blatant once-over and licks his lips. I give him a drop-dead look. He blows me a kiss.
Gross. I'm so not on Park Avenue anymore.
Bella still hasn't texted me back, but I pour myself a glass of wine and settle onto the loveseat with my Andrew Jackson book after kicking off my shoes.
Yeah. I'm back to that.
See, I went to Bar Harbor, Maine with two goals: (1) heal Paul Langdon and (2) read this damned book. I'm determined to do at least one of those, and it certainly won't be the first. He's made that much clear in the weeks that have passed.
It's not like I've been expecting him to chase after me or anything like that. I mean, if he's too chickenshit to go to a movie in Maine, he's definitely not going to show up at my office with some romantic gesture. To do that he'd have to care.
To do that, he'd have to love me the way that I love him.
Ha. Loved him, past tense. I need to put that behind me.
There's a knock at the door. It's Maria, the folk rapper.
"Hey. I need some cornstarch," she says, snapping her fingers in a hand-it-over gesture.
Seriously?
"I don't have any cornstarch," I reply.
Maria wrinkles her nose in irritation. "That's supposed to be a neighborly thing. A cup of cornstarch or whatever."
"Actually, I think that's a cup of sugar. Which I have, if you need it."
I have a ton of sugar. I've been determined to duplicate Lindy's cookie recipe, but so far I'm not even close.
"Well, okay. Hand over the sugar, then."
I frown. "Wait-do you need sugar or cornstarch?"
"Cornstarch, but I'll take the sugar."
I shake my head in confusion. "They're not substitutes for each other, you know."
"What?" she asks.
Oh my God. I should have brought my wine to the door. "Sugar and cornstarch. So not the same thing."
"Well, what can I sub for cornstarch?"
I start to tell her to Google it like a normal person, or just run down to the bodega and get some freaking cornstarch, but I try to keep my expression pleasant. Who knows, maybe I really will need the proverbial cup of sugar from her someday.
"Are you using it as a thickening agent? You could use flour," I say. Lindy would be so freaking proud.
"A thickening agent?"
I smile, trying to keep it friendly. "Don't take this the wrong way, but maybe you should just order takeout."
"Yeah, maybe you're right."
"Okay then," I mutter, already starting to close the door.
Her face gets in mine. "Did you see the new neighbor? He's yummy."
"Yeah, I saw him. Beefy and lecherous isn't really my thing."
"Not mine either, seeing as I like the ladies, but anyway, that's not the new guy, that's the mover. His name is Bruce."
"The mover or the new guy?" I asked, wondering why the hell I'm still having this conversation.
"The mover, obviously. He's a creep."
My head is spinning.
"The new guy could totally turn me," Maria whispers, leaning in.
"Good luck with that," I say, glancing over my shoulder in a deliberate, well-I-should-really-be-going kind of way.
"Well, thanks but no thanks on the cornstarch," she says, giving me a little wave. "Guess Tasty Thai is where it's at again tonight. Oh, and before I forget . . . I'm performing at a little place on 96th and Lex tomorrow, if you want to come. Don't know that it's your scene, though," she says, giving my work dress pants and pink cardigan a once-over.
"Yeah, maybe not. Thanks anyway, though."
She puts a hand on the door before I can shut it, and I stifle a scream of irritation. Maybe this is why Paul goes out of his way to avoid neighbors. They're annoying.
"You could ask the new guy to take you."
"Yeah!" I make my eyes go wide and eager. "I'll think about it!"
Not.
"He asked about you," she says, her face coming in the door before I can shut it.
I frown. "Who?"
"The new guy."
My heart gives a little thump, and not in a good way. That a new neighbor is asking about her is one thing a girl living alone doesn't want to hear, ever.
"That's . . . disturbing."
She shrugs. "You wouldn't think that if you saw him. Well, half of him anyway. One side of his face is Hollywood gorgeous, and the other is . . . well, something happened. No judgment here, though. I think it's sexy. If I liked men. But-"
"Hold on." My heart's kicked into overdrive. "Hold on just a second. Half of his face is scarred?"
"Totally." She holds up three fingers like a claw and makes a swiping motion. "Wicked scars. Sexy wicked."
Without a word, I shut the door in her face. Rude? Yes. Necessary? Definitely. Because I feel like I'm going to throw up.
"Hey!" she shouts through the door. "Don't tell him I told you about him. He told me not to!"
I close my eyes and slump to the ground, leaning my head back against the door as I try to get it together.
Paul is here. No, Paul's living here. In my building.
The question is, how do I feel about it?
Stunned? Check. Elated? Maybe. A little pissed that he didn't just pick up the phone and call first? For sure.
But none of that matters, because while my brain is registering all of those reactions, my heart clings to only one: wariness.
See, not so long ago, I was a bona fide romantic. I believed in true love and happy endings.
And then I grew up.
I kissed my boyfriend's best friend, and then went and tried to steal my ex back from his new girlfriend.
And then I thought I could make amends for all of that by fixing some poor fool who never really wanted to be fixed in the first place.
I single-handedly messed it all up.
In other words, romance? Disney and the romantic comedies can keep it. If it even exists.
Self-preservation feels infinitely safer. Self-preservation doesn't allow you to go bounding down the hallway to throw yourself into the arms of a guy you love more than anything.
Self-preservation knows that by keeping to yourself, you won't give someone the chance to push you away and tell you you're not worth it.
Self-preservation means that you don't have to worry about when you inevitably hurt him.
No. No. I'm so not doing that. I'm not going down that path of berating myself for what I've done in the past.
But . . .
Neither am I going down the path toward him.
I slowly climb back to my feet, wiping away the tears.
Paul Langdon has come, likely planning some big grand finale, and he's going to get it. But I don't think it'll be the one he's expecting.
Our ending is going to be the hard, painful kind.
The kind that will be better for both of us in the long run.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Paul
Note to self: ask Olivia why she chose the grossest building in Manhattan for her first apartment.
I pull out some bills fresh from my savings account, which I just emptied, and hand them to my two thuglike movers. Neither of them bothers to count the money, which seems idiotic to me, but hey, whatever gets them out of my home faster.
Home. Good God.
The landlord assured me it was the largest floor plan available. A "deluxe two-bedroom." While I'll grant that there technically seem to be two rooms in which one could put a bed, the deluxe part eludes me altogether.
Is it the ancient fridge? The freezer that makes rattling noises? No, it must be the dingy shower that can maybe allow for me to stand sideways. A car horn blares outside. Wait, no-make that dozens of car horns blaring outside.
Of course, I'm practically immune to it by now. I've been in the city for all of a few hours, but it only took the trip from LaGuardia to my new building for car horns to become second nature. I get why native New Yorkers say you don't even really notice the noise after a while. You have to get used to it, because it's either that or go bat-shit crazy.
I am a long, long way from Bar Harbor, Maine.