“Yeah, how do you like that?” Mr. Feingold asks. “Now I gotta find a new tenant in the middle of winter. Not an easy thing to do. But whaddya expect from a foreigner? I wish I could legally refuse to rent to ’em.”
I pretend to believe he’s kidding and edge up the stairs. “I won’t be long,” I promise him. “I’m just going to slide something under his door.”
“Take your time, honey,” he says, waving. “He’d be an even bigger idiot than I think he is if he just lets you drop that and run.”
I run up the last flight, taking the steps two at a time. My mission is to drop off the letter and get back to my own apartment, preferably before the snow covers the streets and everyone starts acting like they’ve never seen the white stuff before.
Unfortunately, the letter is a little fatter than the opening under his door. After two false starts, I take the envelope and try to flatten it against my thigh.
The door swings open, revealing a wet-headed Jude in a pair of baggy workout shorts and, fittingly, the Loyola sweatshirt he thought I would appreciate him buying but that I made him promise (without explanation, of course) never to wear around me.
“I thought you were Mr. Feingold… again,” he says, while at the same time I say, “I thought you weren’t home.”
Both of us chuckle nervously. Then he steps aside to invite me in.
“Oh,” I say. “No. Thank you. I… uh…” I hold up the envelope. “Was just bringing you this.”
“You’re a few weeks late for a Dear John letter,” he cracks helpfully.
I play along. “Yeah, the U.S. Postal Service isn’t what it used to be now that everyone uses email.”
Warily, he takes the envelope. He slides his finger under the flap, but before he can tear it open, I say, “Please. Wait until I’m gone.”
After a tiny hesitation, he agrees. “Are you sure you won’t come in, just for a minute, to warm up?”
I look past him, and I’m surprised to see his furniture and no boxes.
“You don’t look like someone who’s moving,” I comment, not making any moves to go inside.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. The movers are coming next week. They’ll do all the packing.”
“Where’s your car?” I ask suddenly, then explain when he gives me a puzzled look, “It’s just… I thought you weren’t home, because it wasn’t parked down there.”
“Ah. That. I sold it. Can’t very well drive it across the pond.”
I don’t know why, but I take it personally that he sold “our” car.
“Who’d you sell it to?”
He starts to answer, then says, “Really. If we’re going to have a conversation, can we do it inside? It’s brass monkey cold out here.”
My curiosity is strangely stronger than my flight instinct at the moment, so I edge past him and stand just inside the door when he closes it.
“Well?” I prod.
“Well what?”
I sigh. “Who bought your car?”
“What does it matter?”
Realizing it’s kind of odd for me to care, I blush. “I don’t know. I’m just curious.”
“Bloke from my rugby team.”
I try to imagine someone else driving his car, and it almost chokes me up. So I change the subject. “What’re you doing home so early, anyway?”
He laughs. “You should have been a reporter. Or a copper.”
Leaving me in the entryway, he steps into the kitchen. I hear him running water. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“No, thanks,” I reply. I really just want him to answer my questions, then I can go. “Did you enjoy your going-away party?” I inquire lightly, as if it’s completely normal for me to be here, asking all this stuff.
From the other side of the wall, he calls back, “Not really. Although thanks for the chocolate cake. They made me take the leftovers home. Fancy some?”
I am kind of hungry. I inch into the kitchen doorway. “I guess. It’d be a shame for it to go to waste.”
He cuts two slices and slides the plate with the exponentially larger piece toward me. Without asking, he pours me a glass of milk and sets it next to the plate.
“Thanks,” I say shyly as we begin to eat standing up. After a few bites, I proclaim, “This is really good.”
He smiles slightly, his piece already gone. “Yep. Too bad you missed the party,” he says pointedly.
“Vacation day, not a ‘sickie,’” I say, to make the distinction.
“Yeah, Wanda told me. Said you’d had it planned for a while.” Pointing to the envelope he’s tossed on the counter, he asks, “What’s this about?”
I shrug, keeping my eyes on my fork as I collect some crumbs from along the edge of the plate. “Just something I promised you a long time ago.”
“But I can’t read it now?”
“Nope.” This cake sure is interesting to look at.
I can feel him watching me. Eventually, he says, “What if I have questions when I’ve finished reading it?”
Draining my glass of milk buys me some time. I don’t want to sound cold, but this letter is supposed to be the last word on our relationship, my “secret,”… everything. “Sorry. No follow-ups.” When he cocks an eyebrow at me, I say, “I’m pretty sure I covered everything. About what happened.”
“You think so, eh?”
“Sure.” I push the plate away, a quarter of the slice remaining. He takes up the fork and finishes it.
After thinking about it for a few minutes, while he washes our dishes and puts them away, he concedes, “Right. If you say so.”
“I do.” I wipe the corners of my mouth with my fingers, making sure I don’t have any chocolate icing or crumbs loitering there. “Well, thanks for the cake.” It sounds so trite and inadequate. I’m glad I wrote a more meaningful thank-you in my letter.
“Leaving already?” he asks, coming around the kitchen island.
I back into the entryway and bump into the wall when I run
