Chapter Ten

Mac

The room still smells like her. An intoxicating mixture of lilac and sex. It's in the blankets, the air, and the empty spot of the bed next to me.

I felt her get up when she left. Felt her eyes wander over me as she lingered by the bed. For a moment I wondered if she'd stay. I thought about rolling over and letting her know I was awake, and then asking her to come back to bed.

But I didn't. I kept my eyes closed, my breathing even. If she stays or goes, it needs to be her choice.

Just like when I undressed her. Touched her. Fucked her.

I told her I was the one in control, but the reality is, she was. Just like she's controlled my life since the first time I laid eyes on her.

Years ago.

Okay, controlled is maybe too strong of a word, but she definitely affected it. I watched as she lugged a guitar case bigger than the small bag that presumably carried everything she owned on her way to #17 on the second floor of the Beale Street Apartments, and it was like being broadsided by a 2x4. It wasn't so much that she was hot, though her beauty was unmatched by anyone I ever saw. Her ivory skin, eyes the color of coffee, dark hair with fringe bangs that framed her face, and those perfect rosebud lips, not to mention the slinky nature of her slender body—I could have stared at her for hours, like she was a piece of art.

It was more than that, though. It was the way she carried herself, with a brush of wide-eyed insecurity masked by complete confidence. It was the tender way she carried that guitar, as if she were carrying a small child. Most of all, it was that look of wisdom just beyond the mysterious darkness of her eyes, like she had experienced some serious trauma but still came out the other side.

That's what penetrated me the most. I recognized that look immediately.

Like calls to like. In her, I felt a kindred soul.

This was all without speaking to her, because she walked by me without even seeing me at all. I was a smooth-faced scrawny guy, completely different than I am now; thanks to a few dedicated years at the gym and a serious break from my razor, I'm now around 100 pounds heavier than I was back then, and my blonde beard now reaches to my chest. Even I have a hard time believing we're the same person, that scrawny kid and me, so it doesn't surprise me that Maren has no idea who I am.

She moved into that apartment, owning nothing but her clothes and guitar. I know because the first day I came in there to check a faulty light switch—I wasn't an electrician, but one of Benji's buddies once gave me a crash course—I saw no couch, no table, not even a bed.

And here's where things got weird.

I was always a shy kid, especially when it came to girls. It wasn't any easier when I was in my twenties. I wanted to help Maren out because I knew what it felt like to have nothing. I also knew how important it was to be independent and earn your way, and I had a feeling Maren's pride was attached to this.

So I started searching for things she could use. Many were used, like the funky orange couch that was left behind in one of the units. It was in great shape, and I had it professionally cleaned. I also went to garage sales and collected pretty dishes, an almost complete silverware set, a dining room table, and a few other items I thought she might need. I even bought a brand-new mattress set with a bed frame, using a whole month's salary to get it.

I should have just told her that I'd found all this stuff for her. But by then, I'd pretty much amassed a household of belongings. I realized how it might look, that she'd know I was interested in her. Maybe she'd think this was creepy and weird. Maybe she'd tell me she wasn't interested.

So I did the next best thing, I set it all up in one of the vacant apartments, making it seem like someone had used all these things. Then I slid a typed note under her door, letting her know that the tenant in #4 had moved out and left a bunch of things that were free for the taking. I gave it the feel that management was sending the notice to every tenant. But in reality, Maren was the only one who got that letter.

When I checked back later, apartment #4 was cleaned out. A few months later, when I was fixing her plumbing, there she was on her second-hand orange couch, strumming her treasured guitar, surrounded by the things I got for her—and she didn't even know.

Was I a total wimp for not being completely outright? Sure. Did she finally have a fully furnished apartment? Yup. So, job well done. Even that orange couch looked amazing in her apartment, but probably because it was Maren sitting on it.

It took years for me to finally get to a place where I knew I had to talk with her. At least to get to know her better beyond the tenant-maintenance relationship we shared, which was putting it generously. She barely acknowledged me except for a slight head nod when she came home from work—if she saw me.

As for me, I always saw her. I couldn't take my eyes off her. I finally reached a point where if I didn't make my intentions known, I was going to explode.

But when I finally mustered the courage to walk up to her apartment, Brock was coming out.

Brock. The weasel who knew exactly how to get under my skin practically since the first day we met. And there he was, walking out of Maren's apartment like he owned the place.

"Hey," he'd said, the smirk on his face telling me everything I didn't want to know.

He got to her first. I'd waited too long.

It doesn't bother me that she was with Brock. At least, not in a way that I feel any kind of ownership about what she does with her body, or who she does it with. What bothers me is that Brock had no idea what he had when he had it. He treated her like he treated any of the chicks he fucked, as if she were just a good time and not an incredible human being .

And I'll be damned if I treat her the same way.

I told her this was casual. I acted like this was just a fuck. It was the only way to ease her mind when her distrust was written all over her gorgeous body. She wants me. She also isn't ready to lower her walls.

So I'll give her my version of casual, but then I'll break down every single one of her goddamn walls, brick by brick, until there's no mistaking that we belong to each other.

I leave the hotel and head straight for the office, checking in with today's nurse, Bill, on the way. Benji has been fine, he assures me. He even seems more alert than the notes indicate from the day before.

"That's great," I say, though each change has me on edge. I can find a negative spin to every update, even this one. I'd heard once that just before dying, some people snap out of their confusion and appear completely lucid. Is Benji just having a good day? Or is he on the brink of death? Once I've hung up the phone, I consider turning my car around and heading to Benji's house.

"No," I say out loud. If Bill says Benji is having a good day, we'll leave it at that. My natural impulse is always to jump when Benji says. But I have my own life to attend to, including the job that's paying both our bills.

"Mr. Dermot, Stephen McPatrick called while you were out, said it was urgent," Tara says as she trots alongside me to my office. Fun fact, Stephen McPatrick uses the word "urgent" as if he earns a paycheck each time. He's a mortgage broker who works with high-end buyers, and tagging his call as urgent is his way of pushing his current transaction to the top of the list. Another fun fact, I do not play into these kind games, regardless of the money on the table. Everyone can wait their turn, and if they get pushy about it, they may move a few rungs down the ladder of importance.

"Who else?" I ask.

My receptionist names off a few others, including one young couple who are ready to purchase their own home. I've talked with James and Anita a few times, and know they are using every cent they have for their first big purchase together. I've already decided to eat the transaction fees, including those of the seller's agent. It's not a lot, but will save them a few thousand dollars that will help them furnish the place they're in.

"If Mr. McPatrick calls again, tell him I'm in a meeting but will respond as soon as I'm out," I say, knowing my "meeting" may take all day. We reach my office, and she lingers for a moment, then glances over my rumpled suit—yesterday's clothes.

"Long night," I say, and she raises her eyebrows.

"Glad it worked out," she says, not even pretending to misunderstand my meaning or the fact that she's, in fact, not glad it worked out, as she turns and heads back downstairs to the reception area.

Luckily, I have a few pressed suits in my office, along with my own private shower. Though, to be honest, washing Maren from my body is the last thing I want to do.

Work ends up taking me past the dinner hour. I pick at a steak salad I bought several hours earlier, the leaves already wilting under the dressing. The stacks of paperwork in front of me seem to have grown since I got here, despite closing a few transactions in the past few hours. I could stay all night and probably still have a ton left to do, which is a great argument to pack it in for the night.

I make a quick stop at the store, then find my way to Benji's house. What I really want to do is drive this whole city and find Maren. I want to text her another command to meet me again, to recreate what happened last night. The guilt over this desire is intense. I haven't seen Benji since yesterday morning, and our last phone conversation was worrisome. Anything could have happened while I was gone, yet I'm already thinking of how I'll ditch him so I can get laid.

I force Maren out of my mind, even though I swear I can still smell her all around me. By the time I'm bounding the steps to Benji's house, Maren occupies just a small corner of my mind. Enough that I can focus on the person in front of me.

Benji is sitting up when I enter the room. His eyes land on mine, but I might as well be the help with the lack of acknowledgment. I could blame it on his usual confusion, but a look at his face shows that he's completely alert. Besides, this is his usual face upon greeting me. That, and some kind of order that—

"Did you pick up a pint of butter pecan?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, waving the bag of ice cream. "Hi Anna," I say to the nurse on shift. While Hattie is my clear favorite, Anna is a close second just because she manages to make the concept of dying a fun event. It's not actually fun, but with Anna, you couldn't tell. The girl is a young mom just out of nursing school, and for some reason she thought end-of-life care was the way to go. "What time is your shift change?"

"Tonight's an all-nighter," she says, though she shows no signs of regret. Her phone is in her lap, paused on a show that she and Benji have been watching together. I haven't paid much attention, but I see now that it's The Bachelor . The Benji I know wouldn't stand for that crap in his house. In all 4,500 square feet of this home, he has just one television in the theater room, which he only allowed for educational shows and occasionally the news. Now he's sneaking peeks at the phone, as if he can't wait for Anna to continue the show.

"I'll spoon us up some ice cream," I say, but Anna jumps up and takes the bag from my hands.

"I got it. Benji's been asking for you." She's gone before I can argue, before I can tell her to pick out the pecans, though I know she's already on top of it.

"Hi Benji," I say, taking Anna's seat and scooting it so we can see each other's faces.

"Don't ‘ hi' me," Benji barks, "Who's Jay Abbott?"

Fuck. I'm going to kill that damn reporter.

"Not sure," I lie, "Why?"

"He had questions about that apartment complex. I told him he could kiss my ass, then I hung up the phone."

I'm irritated that this is the first I'm hearing of this. But I also didn't hire these nurses as babysitters or to monitor anything other than Benji's health.

"Did he say anything else? Did you?" I ask. I'm trying not to look too eager, fixing my face into an expression of boredom, but inside I'm seething. Benji has no idea about the article. I've worked too hard to make the last moments of his time here on earth stress free. And yet, here he is, his beady eyes narrowed as he studies me.

"Nothing else," he says, "I figured you'd know. You seem to know everything, don't you?"

Ah, there it is. Just the tone in his voice tells me where his mind is—the day I quit the apartments to start working real estate full time. Back then, it was a betrayal. I'd grown up believing Benji was raising me to walk in his footsteps, to gain the kind of wealth he'd amassed for himself. But all he really wanted was cheap labor in just one of the ways he cut corners. I thought he'd understand when I strove for bigger and better things. Instead, he decided I was abandoning the family business in favor of a flashy hobby.

Well, that flashy hobby turned into the very thing that is keeping both of us afloat.

"I got ice cream!" Anna sings, juggling three bowls as she comes into the room.

I look toward Benji, who seems to have forgotten our whole discussion, his eyes glued to the bowl. I didn't even get a chance to defend my character. But would it have mattered? He didn't listen before, and he won't remember now.

I take my bowl, and Anna takes turns spooning ice cream into Benji's mouth before enjoying a bite from her own bowl. She turns on The Bachelor , and I try not to roll my eyes out of my head as Benji leans over, accepting spoonfuls of ice cream as he waits to see which girls will get a rose.

When I'm at Benji's house, I try to help the nurses as much as possible. They don't really need my help, since Benji is no longer able to leave the bed. But I want to help. I feel it's my duty, since I'm the closest he has to a son. Well, except for my foster brother, but I'd rather leave him out of it. For me, this is my way of saying thank you for all the years he gave me a safe place to stay. So when Benji needs a bath, I'm there with the tub of water and a sponge. When he needs to be turned, I help roll him to his side and scoot him to the middle of the bed. He's probably a hundred pounds by now, just skin and bones in his hospital bed that sits in the middle of the living room—just a fraction of the larger-than-life man he once was, and not nearly as terrifying. And yet, I still jump at his command. I'm three times his size with all my faculties, and his word continues to be the last.

Tonight, I help Anna change his gown, adding it to the pile of laundry I'll do before bed. I try not to stare at the knobs of his spine protruding along the seam of his back, or how his hips jut out at the edges. At this stage, there's no longer a need to fatten him up. Instead of caloric protein shakes and supplements, he now eats what he wants, when he wants, which isn't often. But ice cream? There's always a pint in the freezer.

Benji is lights out almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. The old man can barely stay awake for more than an hour at a time. I wish Anna a goodnight as she makes up a bed on the couch, then I throw the laundry in the washer before retiring to my bedroom in the back of the house .

Here's the thing about this room: it was supposed to be a staff room, along with the room my foster brother stayed in. Both were simple with nothing more than a bed and a dresser. Never once did I think to make it something more, no posters or other art on the walls, no colorful bedspread, no books or games, or anything that might give people a clue to who I was.

Maybe it was because I wasn't even sure who I was. I'd spent so many years shuffled from house to house, constantly on the defense that I didn't have any energy left for trivial things, like interests.

Even now at thirty-five, I struggle with an answer on what I do for fun.

Cover my benefactor's ass. Sell off his belongings to pay his debt. Be the fall guy for all the mistakes he's made. Make sure he dies with honor.

So fun.

Well, there's one thing I do, something I've kept up since I was fifteen years old; I wake up early every day, go for a run, then end it with a barefoot walk so I can feel close to everything.

It started when Benji took a trip to Tunisia while I stayed behind with the security guards as my babysitters. When he came back, it was with all these mystical ideas he'd learned from the people he was staying with. The irony was that his teachings were all about love, an idea Benji was apparently drawn to, but unable to actually show. Not to me, and not to anyone I'd ever seen him around.

But one of the things he taught me was that when an emotion runs deep, the best thing you can do is take off your shoes to be closer to the energy of the world, allowing the true holiness of the moment to flow free.

So every morning, I have held on to this ritual. It's the one thing that ensures there's a portion of the day when the Universe and I are one.

And tomorrow, I'll need it.

I kneel down on the floor and retrieve the metal box hidden under my bed. I trust everyone who comes in and out of this house, but I also know the pull of temptation.

It's a combination lock, and I quickly spin the numbers until it unlocks. Inside is a small jewelry box. My hands have a slight tremor as I open it. I take in the diamonds and blue sapphires, it's such a small thing to be this precious.

I close the case, then return it to the metal box before scrambling the combination and hiding it back under my bed. Pulling out my phone, I quickly book a table at Breakers, a cocktail lounge, with a note to seat us in the back. Then I scroll to my text messages.

Mac: I made reservations at Breakers tomorrow night. Meet me there at 7 p.m .

The read receipt indicates she's read the message, then the moving dots as she types.

Amanda: I'll be there in red.