Fifteen

Apparently, it's easy to avoid your next-door neighbor. Valeria makes it look easy, at least. She's remarkable at it—like the Lebron James of avoiding people who literally sleep eight inches away every night.

I, on the other hand, know jack shit about avoiding my next-door neighbor because all I want to do is talk to Valeria.

Days pass. I knock. I try calling her from the buzzer in the lobby. I even leave a Post-It on her mailbox asking her to swing by. Later, I spot the note stuck to the bottom of the property manager's shoe.

"At some point, you have to give up," Everett declares, maneuvering the three beers in his arms so he can close the fridge. He hands one of the beers to me and slides another across my kitchen table to Dalton.

Dalton glances up from his laptop, takes the beer, and lets out a snicker. "You'd love for Lander to give up. Once he moves on, you can stop feeling guilty about being such a tool."

"I'm not a tool," Everett protests, dropping into the empty chair next to me. His expression is alarmingly convinced.

"You're a tool," Dalton and I reply in unison.

Everett rolls his eyes and leans against the seat back. "I was being honest and Cora took it the wrong way."

I lift an eyebrow. "Yeah, telling a woman you won't take naked pictures of her because you're going to be the President of the United States of America and want to avoid a sex scandal is not only honest, but also super well-adjusted and not at all delusional. By the way, have I mentioned you're a tool?"

"I messaged her and apologized," Everett mutters. "And for the record, I'm not saying I'm innocent. It was a bad delivery, I know. But I…panicked and it came out wrong."

"Panicked?" Dalton cants his head to the side. "You don't panic. What did she do to you?"

"It was a lot," Everett admits, looking away. "I was showing her pictures of the Perseids, these incredible ones I took where the sky has this splash of mauve in it, when out of nowhere, she asked if I would take her picture. Next thing I know, she was talking about dildos—"

"Everett," Dalton interjects, brow knotted, "you got scared of a dildo? These women are camgirls. Dildos are, like, entry-level fuckery. Get used to it."

"Why the hell should I get used to it?" Everett questions. "Cora never responded, so I figure she's never going to speak to me again."

Dalton blinks emphatically before gesturing at me. "Your best friend since birth has spent the last week trying to get with Valeria, not to mention the literal year and thousands of dollars—"

"Tens of thousands," I admit readily.

"—tens of thousands of dollars he spent before that. This isn't going away. He's been messing around in that ridiculous Duolingo app all evening. The last time Lander cared this much about anything, it was getting a higher LSAT score than you. Trust me, he's not giving up."

Everett glances between us. His expression has dipped into that familiar look of indignation, the one he developed as a baby vegan at the tender age of eleven when his father asked him if he was enjoying the foie gras at Guy Savoy in Paris. "Permission to be realistic for a minute?" he asks.

"Go for it, se?or presidente," I taunt. "That's ‘Mr. President' in Spanish."

"Fine," Everett snaps before he says something long and fast and in Spanish because he's a brilliant asshole who had the foresight to study it in high school in case he ever ran for President and needed "the Latino vote."

Annoyed, I clear my throat and pretend to look at my phone. "You'll have to excuse me. I haven't reached that level in Duolingo yet."

"Alright, well here it is in English: I think," he offers, being selective about his word choice, "there's a strong possibility you and Valeria may never happen."

Finally, Dalton stops typing into his spreadsheet—a sign it's about to go down. "Aw shit," he murmurs, but he extends the word so long, it sounds more like sheeeeeeet.

In the twenty-seven years I've been friends with these guys, I've never wanted to murder either of them so much—which is saying a hell of a lot because when we were in high school, Dalton got extremely stoned and submitted my half-finished Princeton application on my behalf, replacing my middle name with POOPFACE. Yes, all-caps.

I glower at Everett, waiting for his expression to wither under my glare. It won't. Everett is one of the few people who knows I'm all bark and no bite. Then again…

…fuck it. It's time to start biting.

"That's it," I decide, placing my beer and my phone on the table. I stand and proceed to unhook the button on the left cuff of my button-down before gingerly folding it up my forearm.

"What are you doing?" Everett asks, his eyes tracking my movements.

"I'm going to fight you," I answer nonchalantly before moving to the other sleeve.

Still reclined comfortably in his chair, Everett snorts and takes a drink from his beer. "Seriously, Lander?" he questions, elegant and droll. "You're going to fight me? As though we're rowdy little alley cats eyeing the same discarded chicken bone?"

"Yes. Exactly that. Get up," I order, looming over him.

"I'm not fighting you. Stop being absurd."

Real talk: I was only partially serious at first, but Everett's skepticism makes me really want to fight him. "Everett, get up," I insist before grabbing his arm and tugging him out of his chair.

Everett's eyes rake over me, scrutinizing, like I've gone full Mr. Hyde. Maybe I have. It's an unsettling feeling, frankly, because I certainly didn't spend a meaningful chunk of my inheritance on a Princeton education (yes, Lander POOPFACE Dawson still got into Princeton) to get into fistfights. But I'm anxious, sad, hornier than I care to admit, and in lieu of blaming myself, I'm going to blame Everett.

"You're unhinged," he spits, trying to rattle me off his arm, but I don't let go.

"Sure am," is my clever response. "Now fight me."

"Hit me then," he challenges, daring me with an incredulous expression.

"Okay."

"Okay."

"I'm going to do it."

"So do it."

"Better brace yourself."

"Ready and waiting."

"Okay."

"Okay."

I do it. I push Everett's shoulder. Sort of.

He rubs his arm where I jammed my palm when I diverted from his face at the last minute.

I couldn't do it. Everett's handsome. Hitting his face seemed like overkill.

"You did it," Everett blurts out, astounded. He massages the moderately sore spot on his arm with his fingertips. "You actually…pushed me."

"Guys," Dalton protests, but we both ignore him.

I push Everett again. Sort of.

And then Everett attempts to shove me back (sort of), but his hand grazes my chest when I dodge him. Easily, I pull him into a headlock, the likes I haven't used since we roomed together at lacrosse camp in high school, and he smoked the joint I'd been saving. He bucks against my hold, but I'm solid.

"Why are you so strong?" he demands, wheezing.

"Give in," I hiss, tightening my grip, but not too tight because Everett bruises easily and then sulks about it. "Apologize."

Everett starts to thrash. "Hell no."

"Give in!"

"I said no."

"Hey," Dalton shouts, deep and booming.

Alarmed, Everett and I both stop grappling to look at him. He lifts his chin towards the front door, expression grim.

Valeria is standing in the open doorway.

"It was unlocked," she explains, her words hesitant.

This is fucking mortifying.

And yet I'm still so excited to see her after four whole days that I can't be embarrassed. "Hey," I greet her, still doubled over and gripping Everett in a chokehold. I release him, shove him away, and then try to subtly straighten my clothes.

Valeria purses her lips and glances to the side. "Sorry for interrupting…whatever this is."

"No worries," I reply, not giving her an explanation. My shirt feels wrinkly. "Everything okay?"

She gestures over her shoulder. "Did you steal my package from my door?"

"I was keeping it safe."

Valeria glances down at the cardboard box I snagged from the hallway when I got home from work this evening. "We're the only ones who live on this floor," she reminds me.

"You never know who might be lurking around," I answer—because I haven't embarrassed myself enough yet.

"Clearly," she replies, her eyes shifting to Everett who, despite his best efforts, has failed to fix his hair. "Well, thanks." She snatches the package off the floor and darts into the hallway before I have a chance to cross the room.

"Hey, wait up," I call, jogging after her.

She's already at her own door, fumbling to get her key into the lock like I'm a herd of zombies. The glare she shoots me is subzero.

"I've been trying to talk to you," I explain, stopping a foot away. "Do you have a minute?"

"I don't," she answers, finally managing to get her door unlocked. She doesn't look at me. "See you around."

"Wait," I object, catching the door before she can slam it in my face. "I wanted to apologize again for Saturday. Everett's an acquired taste. He and I are…working it out."

Valeria's eyebrow shoots up. "Seems to be going well," she deadpans.

"Is Cora mad?"

"Well, a snobby little lawyer suggested she would tank his political career if she hired him to take pictures for her skanky little camming hustle. So no, she's not mad at all."

Fucking Everett. I'm so frustrated with him, I don't even have time to commend Valeria on her top tier sarcasm. "Look, I know what happened is exactly what you warned me about, but Everett's not me. I would never say something like that—or even think it."

"You're asking me to trust your words. Words are flimsy, Lander. You're a lawyer. You know better than to trust words." Valeria folds her arms. "Are we done here? I need to make dinner."

"Let's leave our friends out of it. You and I can spend time together, and I'll prove you can trust what I say. I haven't eaten either. Want to get dinner?"

Valeria finally faces me. "I can't," she emphasizes. "I'm not budging—even if Saturday's drunken mistake gave you the impression I would. I don't mess around with lawyers. Not now, not ever."

"At least tell me why," I press, short of begging, although I would beg if it came to it. "We can be mature adults and talk it out."

Her eyes trail down to my shirt, which is still rumpled from my pitiful kitchen tussle with Everett. Her eyebrow rises once again.

Fine. I walked into that one.

Valeria pulls her lips into a line. "I don't have to tell you why. It won't change anything."

"Valeria—"

"Lander," she interjects, "while I appreciate the apology on Everett's behalf, it was a wakeup call. I want you to stay away. All of you. Especially you."

"Especially me?"

With a meaningful glare, she disappears into her condo without another word, leaving me to wander back to my place and flop onto the couch like the poster child for despondency.

Quietly, Everett eyes me while I tug a pillow over my chest. He passes me my leftover beer from the kitchen table. "You're moping."

I take the beer and finish it. "Well, I'm sad."

"Okay, look," he says, joining me on the couch. "I screwed up and I feel like shit because yes, Lander, I love you. And yes, Lander, I owe you big time. And yes, Lander, while you were talking to Valeria, Dalton read me the riot act and has made it abundantly clear that I am, in fact, a tool."

I glance over at Dalton who is back to clacking away on his laptop. He throws me a thumbs-up without taking his eyes off his screen.

"Let me help you," Everett offers.

"You can't. It's the lawyer thing. If I could get her to talk to me, maybe we could work it out, but she doesn't want to talk. And if this week has been any indication, she's fully capable of avoiding me forever." I exhale. "I mean, fuck. I literally had to steal her mail to get her to talk to me. That's a misdemeanor."

"All you want is to talk to her?" Everett confirms.

"For now, yeah."

He looks away, drumming his fingertips on his chin before he faces me. "I've got it. I'm going to help you. As your smartest friend—"

"Fuck you," Dalton chimes in from the table.

"—and the future President of the United States—"

"Fuck you," Dalton and I say in unison.

"—I'm going to tell you a story about DDT," Everett finishes before giving me a close-lipped, politician's smile.

"DDT? The chemical?"

"Dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane," Everett rattles off. "Yes, it's a chemical compound widely used as insecticide until it was banned by the US government in 1972 because it's ridiculously poisonous."

"Ev," Dalton drones. "Are you seriously doing this right now?"

Everett flips him off. "In the early 1970s, Richard Nixon asked the EPA to ban it. At the time, the EPA was under the control of its first administrator, Bill Ruckelshaus. Controversial guy. Bit of a renegade. In a rare misstep, Ruckelshaus initially determined DDT wasn't a problem. You can imagine how the rest of the EPA felt. So, do you know what his colleagues did?"

"Do tell."

"Did they die of boredom?" Dalton asks. "Did they all keel over in a big pile of dead, bored environmentalists?"

"Nope," Everett goes on. "They sat outside of Ruckelshaus' office and every time his phone rang, they banged on file cabinets and slammed the walls. It was chaos. Ruckelshaus' colleagues wouldn't let him get anything else done until he agreed to review the DDT issue again."

"And it worked?"

"DDT has been banned since 1972. You tell me if it worked." Everett bobs his chin. "Anyway, I'm still heading to Shenandoah on Thursday for the Perseids, but you two should think about doing something. Maybe invite a few people over. Maybe a party."

It takes me a minute to understand what Everett's implying, but once it clicks, it clicks. It's fiendish—and brilliant. "You're ruthless, Ev," I mutter, slow clapping.

Everett raises a shoulder. "And you thought the EPA was soft." Smug, he relaxes back in his seat and unlocks his phone. His expression shifts to a frown though. "Weird. Does anyone know why I'm getting emails from the official Danielle Steel and Nora Roberts mailing lists?"

I shrug. "No clue."

"Never heard of them," Dalton comments.

"So weird," Everett mumbles before pocketing his phone once more. "Anyway, good luck, Lan. Keep me posted."

"Definitely."

Scheme number three: Become unavoidable.