“Do?”
“For work, what did you do?”
“Oh, I didn’t work,” she says as we step onto the third floor landing and amble towards her apartment. “That was my husband. He was a good man—very loving, always looked after me.” She fumbles in her bag for her keys then raises a weathered hand to unlock the door.
I step into the apartment behind Agnes, taking in my surroundings. It’s like our apartment but it’s stuck in time a few decades ago. The kitchen is old, with bare wooden cupboards, tiles with stained grout, and a refrigerator so ancient I can’t believe it’s still working. In her living room she has a mustard-yellow velour sofa that is so old it’s fashionable again, and the whole apartment has a slightly musty smell.
Agnes heads into the kitchen, gesturing to the counter for me to place her groceries. “Would you like to stay for a cup of tea? It’s the least I can do to thank you for your help.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Agnes, I’m happy to help. But actually, a cup of tea would be nice.”
She motions to the sofa for me to take a seat. “And what about you, dear?” she asks from the kitchen, taking out cups and saucers.
“Sorry?”
She smiles as she pours boiling water onto the teabags. “Have you got a boyfriend?”
“Er, no.” Well I did, but then he dumped me to travel the world, only to end up staying home with someone else instead. I swallow back the bitter taste in my mouth at the thought.
Agnes balances two delicate china tea cups on saucers as she walks over to the sofa, the cups trembling slightly in her hands. She places mine down on the wooden table in front of me, and steam swirls up from the cup. “No one taken your fancy?” she asks, easing herself onto the sofa beside me.
Michael’s face flashes into my mind. I haven’t seen him since that afternoon at work a week ago, so it’s been easy to forget how awful his personality is and just remember the way his suit fit his shoulders, how good he smelled up close. And the more I thought about that, the more inspired I got for my romance novel again.
I borrowed those books from work, figuring that since I won’t be having any real romance in my life I may as well write about it. I’m going to miss all that stuff, if I’m honest. Wondering if things could go somewhere, the anticipation and excitement of seeing each other. And—I’m not going to lie—I’ll miss the sex. I already do. Sure, I own several battery-operated devices designed to help me in that area on my own, but come on—my bedroom doesn’t have walls, for crying out loud. And when I do get time alone, well… it’s not nearly the same as the real thing.
Anyway, it was fun writing a scene inspired by Michael at the bookstore. I rewrote what happened between us, took back some of the power. Instead of him catching me with an armload of erotica and smirking, he pinned me against the bookshelves and, well, I’m sure you can guess the rest. I changed the names of the characters, so it wasn’t about Michael and I at all, but instead about a couple called Matthew and Annie. Which is totally different.
Well, of course it’s different. Matthew has a decent personality, unlike the bastard I keep running into. Although, Agnes did mention…
“You know Michael, downstairs?” I say without thinking.
She raises her eyebrows. “Oh? You’re interested in Michael?”
Shit.
Heat flares up my face. “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant. He just, well, you said he was a nice guy, but…” I spread my hands, unsure how to explain the unpleasant encounters I’ve had with him.
Agnes gives me a warm smile. “Yes, he is a lovely man, comes up here for tea often. I do wish he would get out and meet a nice lady, but he doesn’t seem up for it.”
I suppress a snort. He doesn’t seem up for it? More like he doesn’t actually like women. That guy has got womanizer written all over him. One proper date on Halloween and he ran for the hills. He probably prefers them in and out of his bed quickly, that way he doesn’t have to deal with complicated things, like their thoughts and feelings.
“He has been under some stress lately,” Agnes continues. “I can’t quite remember what it was, but he did mention something.”
“Something at the office, maybe?” I reach for my cup and saucer and take a careful sip.
“Office?”
“At his job?”
She frowns. “He doesn’t work in an office, dear.”
What? What about the suits? What about the board meetings and the buying and selling stocks and the bottom line?
Agnes catches my perplexed expression and continues as she sips her tea. “He’s a writer, I believe. Written quite a few books. Even has things published in The New York Times,” she adds proudly, as if he were her own son.
“A writer,” I repeat, baffled. We can’t be talking about the same guy. “We are talking about Michael, on the second floor. Henry’s father?”
She nods. “Yes, that’s him.”
My eyebrows shoot up as I raise my tea to my lips, my mind whirling. I cannot believe this. A writer! This is bad news indeed, because it just makes him sexier. Even if he does seem to be incapable of smiling.
I mean, take the last time I saw him. I was trying so hard to be helpful with those travel books and he couldn’t have been any more ungrateful if he tried.
I replay the moment where he got annoyed as I rambled on about that Appalachian Trail book, and something clicks in my brain.
No. It couldn’t be… could it?
I set my teacup down, turning to Agnes. “Thank you so much for the tea, Agnes, but I’ve just realized something and I have to run. I’m sorry.”
She smiles.
