Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ANTHONY

Conversation with Rosie

Wednesday night

Thursday morning

Are you okay?

Me? How about YOU?

I get brought in for questioning all the time. It’s a regular Wednesday pastime for me. They might make me a plaque for one of the interrogation rooms.

I’d like to see you again.

You will. Saturday. I wrote it into my empty day planner and everything. Where should we meet?

I’d like to see you before Saturday.

I can’t. There’s some business I need to take care of.

Does it involve psychedelic tea?

I don’t feel comfortable answering that question on an open line.

Saturday, then.

What’s after riding a unicorn on your list?

I’m working on it.

What’s on YOUR list?

The first was obviously bartending.

So you said. What’s #2?

Getting you ice cream sundaes.

Your list shouldn’t be about me, Anthony. It should be about YOU. So I reject your second list item.

Hardass.

I guess painting is second, then.

Okay, good. We’re going on a painting outing after the unicorn ride. It’s happening.

I’m smart enough not to try saying no to you.

Thursday night

Did you just send me five gallons of ice cream? My freezer is much too small for this kind of action.

I hope you and Joy are hungry.

This is excessive, but I’m not going to complain.

Good. Be prepared for excess.

How’s your list coming along?

It’s a good list. It’s the best list.

You still only have items 1-2 and 5, don’t you?

I’d like to go back to being a man of mystery now.

It’s too late. The glass has been shattered.

Also…I’m still working on mine.

Nothing out of the ordinary was found in the warehouse when the police searched it on Thursday. Then again, if someone called the police because they were worried about Rosie and me finding something, they probably broke in to get it as soon as Officer Richards pulled out of the lot.

I had some handymen come in and install security cameras, but if something was in there it’s long gone. The wear by the door suggests there have been break-ins, just like Nutman said, but there’s no way of knowing who was behind them or when they happened.

Simon knows about the whole thing, of course, and at my last meeting on Friday, someone blares “Time After Time.

I have no idea how he found out about the song. But he’s good at buttering people up and pretending to be their best friend. My best guess is that Officer Nutman is going to be eating a pot roast dinner at Simon’s house sometime soon.

Normally, this kind of behavior would tweak my last nerve and I’d blow up, but I’m surprised by how little I care. Despite what’s happening, my mood has been lighter lately. Easier.

So I grin at my employees and say, “If you’re going to give me a new nickname, I’d prefer ‘Dancing Queen’ to ‘Cyndi Lauper.’”

For a second, silence reigns in the room—so complete and pure, I almost laugh—then someone else laughs, and suddenly everyone is laughing. I get a few backslaps as people file out of the room.

“Merry Christmas,” I tell them. “The Dancing Queen will see you next week.”

Simon hangs back, giving me a shit-eating grin as he rocks on his feet. “Come on, it was just a joke,” he says as the last person filters out. He makes no move to leave.

“I know,” I reply. “It was funny.”

He looks like I’ve just blown his mind and left him with only half of his brain.

“So,” he says, adjusting his weight from one foot to another. “Is the woman you were with the other night the future Mrs. Smith?”

“Maybe,” I say, my heart thumping faster at the thought.

I haven’t even kissed Rosie yet. But the thought of claiming her…of making her mine…

It stirs something deep within me.

And yet, I know from very recent experience that trying to weave a marriage for money into something more is a dangerous game.

“Well, well,” he says, patting his broad chest. “You know I’ll help you if you need it, son.”

“I know,” I say, somewhat meaning it.

He’ll help me if it benefits him. Of that, I have no doubt.

“And how is your mother?”

I try not to visibly bristle.

My mother has been…better.

I’ve had cameras installed outside of her house too.

Normally, she’d balk at that kind of “invasion,” but she just firmed her lips and said, “That brat next door has been stealing my paper for months. We’ll see what he does when I have video evidence.”

The brat in question is a thirty-year-old man.

The paper in question is a local publication no one reads.

Living at Smith House for the past week has been…

Well, it’s definitely been something. Mother and I have fallen into a routine. We have breakfast together every morning and dinner together every evening, after which we play cards and have an after-dinner drink in the drawing room.

The exception was on Wednesday evening, after which she interrogated me.

“ Why were you in that warehouse?”

“Who was with you?”

She’s worried and on edge, and I’ve caught her checking the countdown website multiple times. I’ve done the same, and it hasn’t changed other than the hours and minutes at the top. It’s like the person who set it up triggered a bomb and then walked away to leave someone else to deal with the fallout.

Maybe it is Simon.

He’s certainly a man who prefers to throw grenades rather than catch them, but then again, I can’t think of any reasonable motivation for him to do such a thing.

I’d prefer to believe it’s someone’s idea of a joke, or that the aim is merely to keep us uncomfortable and on edge, but then there’s the question of who called the police on Wednesday night…

I clear my throat. “Mother’s doing well. Have a very merry Christmas.”

“But Anthony… The wedding…”

“I trust you’ve contacted my mother with your RSVP,” I say.

“Of course. But I’d like a guarantee that it’s actually going to happen, dammit.”

“So would I.” I force a grin and clap him on the back.

“But Rachel—”

“I hope you both have a merry Christmas.”

And then I leave.

But I don’t make it any farther than The Peanut Bar.

I haven’t finished my bucket list yet, and it seems more likely that I’ll get it done there than if I’m hanging out at my house with my mother peering over my shoulder.

Or that was the idea, anyway.

As Dom passes me a beer over the counter, he lifts his eyebrows and says, “I’ll bet it was the Illuminati who called the cops on you, man. Did you know they used to use this building for their meetings?”

“I don’t think that’s true.” I glance at my usual booth but then settle onto a stool across from him. “The Illuminati own a building downtown.”

“Sure,” Dom says, tapping the side of his nose. “But why would the Illuminati meet in such an obvious place? They’re tricky. That’s their whole thing.” He returns to his own stool. “It’s too bad we were busy the other night, huh, Gene?”

Gene, who’s in his usual booth, grunts, which could be assent or dissent.

“See? Gene knows what’s up. We would have kicked some Illuminati ass with you.”

“Rosie and I didn’t actually see anyone out there,” I point out.

Other than the three of us and a man who’s sitting in the far corner of the bar, mowing through a bowl of peanuts, the bar is empty tonight. The Rosie effect has worn off for the time being, or maybe her magic only works when she’s physically present.

Maybe that’s why I can’t finish this damn list.

Maybe that’s why I can’t do a single damned thing without thinking about her and our moment in the warehouse before everything went up in flames.

Leigh texted me this morning, asking about setting up another meeting to discuss our possible business collaboration, and I told her I’d get in touch after Christmas.

She responded thusly:

Of course. But I’d like to get this settled as soon as possible so the proper garments can be acquired.

It’s not her fault that the message repulsed me.

Christmas is on Monday, and the New Year’s Eve party-slash-wedding is on Sunday.

Time is running out.

No, time is gone . There are approximately four grains of sand left in my proverbial hourglass. I need to make a decision, and it has to be the right decision, or I’m not the only one who’ll suffer.

Still, Rosie’s magic hasn’t totally deserted me, because when I think about our dance, we’re not waltzing through a dirty, dark warehouse. We’re waltzing through The Ware. A finished version with clear skylights and plants all around the atrium.

I dreamed of it last night, exactly as I’d envisioned it years ago, when I’d hired an architect to make the drawings that got shit on by Simon and then the members of the board I unsuccessfully tried to court.

Rosie has lit a fire in me, and I don’t know how to put it out.

Truthfully, I don’t want to put it out.

It’s like…all the dreams I tucked away throughout my life are finding their way out. They’re asserting themselves loudly.

“What was it like getting brought into the station?” Dom presses, bringing me back to the present. “When that police officer came in on Thursday, I about shit my pants.”

“It wasn’t exactly pleasant. As a rule, I’d prefer not to be brought into the police station.”

“I hear you, man,” Dom says. “Loud and clear. I got arrested for public urination once, and it totally ruined my date.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t the urination that did that?”

He cocks his head. “You know, I assumed it was the arrest, but you might have a point.”

I bend my head to the notebook in front of me, which has about fifty bucket list items scratched out—

Learn how to roller blade.

I’d prefer not to fall on my ass in front of Rosie.

Tell Wilson what I really think of him.

That’ll have to wait until after the wedding, which I still haven’t gotten around to inviting him and Nina to. I’d prefer not to do that until I have a bride locked down.

Tell my father what I really think of him.

It’s too late for that, surely.

Join a band.

I have no talent for musical instruments or desire to sing in front of other people.

Learn another language.

It would be a useful skill, to be sure, but it’s not going to happen before the end of the year.

I pause, then say, “Dom, what would you put on your bucket list?”

He leans forward and says in a stage-whisper, “You dying, bro? You can’t be more than, what, forty?”

“I’m about to turn thirty-four.”

He snaps his fingers and grins at me. “Hey, I was pretty close!”

Coming here was a poor idea, and asking a chronically baked bartender for advice was a worse one.

Jake had asked me to grab a drink tonight, but I’d turned him down. I hadn’t wanted him to get on my case about Leigh. So I’d said I was playing chess with my mother, and he should feel free to join us.

I sigh deeply. “I’m not dying, Dom. I think I’m trying to start living.”

“I don’t know what that means, bud, but I’m glad you’re not on your way out…” He leans back in his seat, scratching his head, then snaps his fingers again. “Flash mob.”

“Your baggage,” Gene interjects, the sound of his voice like two rocks scraping together. “You want to start living, you got to put it down or throw it out. That’s the only way.”

“Told you he knows where it’s at,” Dom says, hitching his thumb at his much-older friend, and I’ll be damned, Gene may not say a lot but he says it well.

Something old and dark, like what you’d find on the inside of a rotting stump, rises up inside of me, and I find myself circling one of the items I’d crossed out.

Tell my father what I really think of him.

The pen’s barely left the paper when I hear the front door creak open, wafting in a gust of winter air. I glance in that direction.

“You fucking liar,” Jake says with a shit-eating grin. “You can imagine my surprise when I went over to Smith House with a bottle of gin. Your mother seemed to think I was trying to seduce her. You know, she won money off me in chess. I figured the irony of fleecing someone so much poorer would keep her from collecting, but it didn’t.”

I find myself laughing, which hadn’t felt possible thirty seconds ago. “I’ll buy you a drink,” I say, motioning for him to join me.

“That’s quite literally the least you can do.” When he approaches the bar, he glances at the notebook in front of me but doesn’t say anything…because he’s waiting for me to say something. Jake’s nothing if not discreet.

I nod to Dom, and he pours my friend my preferred beer.

“So I heard you had yourself an adventure the other night,” Jake says as he lifts his glass in salute.

“Yeah,” Dom says, clearly expecting to be part of our conversation. “Some Illuminati called the cops on my buddy here for dancing back there in the warehouse. Like…it’s a free country, man. This isn’t the Footloose town. You can dance wherever you’d like in Asheville.”

“No, actually,” I correct. “You can’t dance in someone else’s property in the middle of the night. But this is my warehouse.”

Dom drops the towel he was using to clean the bar. “ You’re the shitty landlord?”

“I prefer to go by Anthony.”

“Sorry,” Dom says, then frowns and adds, “sir.”

“Please don’t ever call me that again,” I tell him, perhaps too forcefully. But this is my safe place—one of the only places where I’m just Anthony.

“Sorry, sir,” he says immediately. Then he takes out his cell phone and heads over to the far end of the bar, as distant from us as possible.

“You’re texting Rosie, aren’t you?” I ask after he starts plugging away with his two pointer fingers, predictive text be damned.

He glances up, his expression alarmed. “Do you have my phone bugged?”

“No,” I say wearily, because it’s happening again. People treat me normally, up until a point. He liked me well enough when I was a sad-sack who liked to hang out at his shitty bar. He liked me better after meeting Rosie. Now, he probably thinks I’m president of the Illuminati. “But she knows who I am and also that I own the building. She’s my friend anyway.” I don’t know what possesses me, because I add, “Maybe you can be too.”

“Really?” he asks, skeptical at first.

I take a second to consider his question, because I’m not a man who usually makes split-second calls. When I make decisions, I prefer to mean them. I give him a firm nod. “Yeah.”

“Oh good, because I have about a hundred ideas for how to improve this place, man,” he says, his face beaming with excitement as he stalks back toward us. “The whole building, I mean.” He waves a hand in front of him. “Imagine it now….roller rink.”

“We’ll stew on that piece of genius, bud,” Jake says, clapping the wood surface of the bar with one hand. “But you know what? We’ve got business to discuss.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” he says. “I’ll just move on over here.” He shifts five inches, or maybe six and turns his back to us.

Jake shrugs at me and then gives me a meaningful look. “Give it to me straight, buddy. Is Rosie trying to win our bet by making a play for you herself?”

Nina was like that—dishonest and conniving. A switch was flipped the moment she realized who I was and what I could do for her. But Rosie promised to be truthful with me, and even though I haven’t known her long, I have known her to be honest.

So I’m shaking my head before he’s even finished the thought. “No. It’s not like that.”

“So you’re into each other,” he says thoughtfully.

“I hope it’s like that,” I admit.

A grin stretches across his face, and he clasps my shoulder. “Well, Hallelujah. This might not be good for my job, but if it doesn’t work out, you’ve got a solid Plan B. I doubt Leigh’s going to run off and get engaged to someone else within the next week. Now, what can I do to help with Plan A?”

That’s when I realize two things:

One. Jake has become a real friend.

And two. Before this month, it had been a long time since I’d had anything that could approach true friendship.

“You can help me finish this damn bucket list,” I say, gesturing to the book covered in writing. “I’ve got one left.”

He laughs. “Bucket list, huh? I went to see this terrible movie about bucket lists with Lainey.”

“Did it end well for them?”

“They both died, but it took two and half hours to happen, so everybody lost.” He taps his fingers against the bar, his gaze far-off. “You could dye your hair purple so you’re a matching set?”

“You’re no help.”

“Don’t think I can be,” he tells me. “Because a Bucket List is supposed to be about you .”

It’s the second time someone’s told me that within the past couple of days, and I realize why I’m at an impasse.

I’m so used to trying to predict what other people want. It’s a habit I formed because of my father. He tormented me, for as long as I can remember. He told me it was because he wanted to make me storm-resistant, but when I got old enough to know better, I realized that he took all of his frustrations and anger out on me for no better reason than that it felt good to him.

“I think I know what it needs to be,” I finally say, although truthfully this next list item blends with another.

I consider asking Jake for help, but the thought of another person witnessing my vulnerability, even someone I trust, makes me deeply uncomfortable.

“Well, good, that’s the easiest good deed I’ve ever done. I love it when things are easier than they should be.”

I smile at him and lift my glass of half-full beer. “I’ll drink to that.”

And I do. We do. We talk about the countdown website and the likeliest contenders. He tells me more about his brother, Ryan, who’s off God only knows where, on some kind of mission of self-expiation, and I tell him about Emma. How our father pitted us against each other when we were young and we’ve never really learned how to get beyond that.

We’re more alike than I ever could have imagined, and it feels good to be open with him.

The sand has been shifting beneath my feet after years of being stagnant and solid, but it’s finally starting to feel like I’m shifting with it.