“Speaking of arriving, what the hell is all this shit that was delivered yesterday?” he asks. “You told me that you didn’t have that much stuff.”
“I don’t have that much stuff.”
“Mia, I had to spend all day yesterday putting half of that shit in storage.”
“What? Which half? You said you had a big condo!”
“Yeah, a condo, not a goddamn mansion.” He’s rolling his eyes, I can tell. “You don’t need fifty canvases.”
“I actually do...I have to show off my portfolio if I’m going to get a job, remember?”
“Well, lucky for you, the storage place is just around the corner. You can get the key and carry all of that shit back to my place yourself.”
“You promised you were going to be a great host, Eric.”
“I am.” There’s a smile in his voice. “My first instinct was to throw it in the garbage, but I had a change of heart. You’re welcome.” He laughs and doesn’t berate me any further. He simply tells me to be careful, says something about the key being under the mat of his front door, and makes me promise to call him the moment I land in Portland.
I agree to call him and hang up. Although the two of us haven’t kept in touch as much since I graduated high school, he’s always said, “If you need anything, just ask,” so when I decided I was done with Michael and the boring reruns that had become my life, Eric offered me a place to stay. No questions asked.
After another hour of finding new ways to waste time in the terminal, I hear a gate agent come over the loud speaker, announcing that my flight is about to start boarding. I buy a bottle of water and a magazine before rushing over to my gate.
I grab the handle of my carry-on and stand in line, grateful that Eric upgraded my ticket to first class. Once I’m in my seat, I send a quick text to Autumn, promising to let her know when I arrive.
As the flight attendants start walking up and down the aisles, I put in my ear buds and fall fast asleep. I miss the in-flight meal, two movies, and apparently “jokes that are actually funny” via the pilot (according to my seat mate).
When I finally wake up hours later, the plane is rolling down the Portland runway and I have a new text message from Eric.
ERIC: Since I know you probably weren’t paying attention earlier, and just in case I’m not home, when you arrive:
Catch a cab from baggage claim. (I already gave our doorman the money to pay for it, so don’t worry about it.)
Take the elevator up to the third floor, second unit on the left, 3A.
The keys under the mat.
Your room is down the hall, first one on the right.
A thirty-minute cab ride later and I’m standing in front of a building that just can’t be right.
Contrary to what Eric said, it does look like a mansion—gated entrance and all. The name of the building, “The Esplanade,” is etched onto the light blue awnings that stand above many of the building’s entrances.
Fortunately, the doorman actually does pay the cab driver, who places my bags at the entryway. From outside the huge double doors, I can see a lobby with huge chandeliers that glisten like stars. Once inside, I see there are several seating areas in the same light blue as the awnings outside, with touches of cream and forest green. And even though I tell him it is not necessary, the doorman, J. Jones, helps me take my bags up to Eric’s condo.
“My name is Jack,” the doorman says. “Eric and I our buds and he told me his baby sister was coming to stay. What kind of friend would I be to let his little sister carry her heavy bags?”
Following Eric’s directions, I take the elevator to the third floor. Even the elevator is spacious and beautifully decorated with gold-leafed fleur de lis and bright lighting. The elevator doors are mirrored and I notice that I look frumpy and tired.
“Thanks, Jack, for your help and I’ll be seeing you around.”
I type in the code on the door. Once inside, I drop my bags to the floor in shock.
He definitely downplayed his place...
From the moonlight that’s filtering through the living room window, I can see that the floors are all-white marble. The walls are a beautiful creamed-coffee color, the kitchen is spotless, and there are two sets of French doors that appear to lead to a balcony.
I run my hands along the wooden bar in the kitchen and decide to explore every inch of his place—tomorrow.
I need to make sure I’m not dreaming first.
Chapter 11
MIA
I wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs hours later, and even though I didn’t want my current dream to end, I force myself to get up and walk into the kitchen.
“Finally awake?” Eric says, looking up from a bowl of pancake batter.