Page 20 of Man Cuffed
He’ll walk her out to her car. He’ll kiss her on the cheek. But that will be it for them.
Pause here for a time lapse. The man needs a few weeks to heal, right? If this were a movie, there would be a montage of Maguire running a few extra miles, sweating out the sadness. And getting drunk with his buddies.
The montage cuts to scenes of me lonely on my sofa, waiting for him.
Then, one day soon, we’ll bump into each other in the laundry room. I could speed this up by doing a lot of laundry over the next month. Maybe I’ll even volunteer to do Cassidy’s. Maguire will show up to launder his cop uniforms.
I’ll smile and lend him some fabric softener, while I amuse him with my rapier wit. He’ll invite me in for a drink. But before we even leave the laundry room, we’ll give in to the chemistry that crackles between us. He’ll kiss me up against the dryer stack.
Then he’ll do me on the washer during the spin cycle.
It’s all taking shape in my mind as I stand there on the stepladder congratulating myself. So at first I don’t even notice the crow. He comes in for a landing on the railing of Maguire’s deck. Better his than mine, right? Bird poop is no joke.
But then it all goes wrong in the flash of an eye. The crow flaps right onto the table, picks up the shiny cufflink in his mouth and takes off again.
For a second I’m too stunned to react. My jaw hinges open, and I can only stare at the spot where the cufflink was a moment ago. But then I let fly a little shriek of outrage. “You asshole!” I scream at the sky. “You ruined everything!”
And now I’m that crazy lady, standing on a ladder, peeping into her neighbor’s deck, and yelling like a banshee.
Hastily I climb back down onto my own side and haul the ladder into my apartment. But I’m steaming. So close to victory! Ruined by a bird whose brain is smaller than a walnut.
On the kitchen counter, I find the other cufflink. I could do the same thing again. But what if the toss goes wrong? Or the bird comes back? Or the bird has friends?
That’s it. No more Ms. Nice Guy. I’m going to get this done for good. My heart rate is elevated, and my ovaries are ready to claim the man who is rightfully mine.
I want justice. And I want to kiss Hot Cop in the laundry room. So I’m going straight to the nuclear option before common sense steps in to stop me.
In my living room, I toe out of my shoes and socks. Then I unlock my door and open it slightly, leaving it ajar. I park my sneaker behind the door, to keep it from swinging wide open. Less than two minutes from now I’m going to need to come back through here.
Tucking the cufflink into the pocket of my shorts, I walk barefoot back through my apartment, grabbing the stepladder on my way. On the deck, I do a quick scan of the property. No landscapers. No neighbors.
It’s now or never, then.
I prop the stepladder against the fence and quickly climb it. Bracing my hands on the top, I pop my body over and jump down onto my neighbor’s side, landing with cat-like ease.
Or at least that’s how I envision myself landing. That’s how I’d land if this were a movie. The truth looks more like hanging on for dear life at the top, questioning every choice I’ve ever made, and then sliding down the other side while trying to avoid splinters in my belly.
I land in a heap on his side of the deck. Ouch.
But never mind. Even if my heart is pounding, I have survived the trip over the fence. If this acting thing doesn’t work out, maybe I should consider stunt work?
I cross the deck in a couple of quick strides. As I reach for the screen door handle, I have one moment of terror. Would he lock it? Have I just trapped myself on his side of the deck? Without food or water or shade or—
The door latch opens easily. Phew! I’ve successfully broken into Hot Cop’s apartment. And, wow, it’sveryclean. I knew he was a keeper. There’s no clutter at all. Marie Kondo would be impressed.
I take a moment to just stand here and take it all in. Maguire’s apartment is very white, like mine used to be. But it looks good on him. There are white bookshelves filled with hardcover classics.The Sun Also Rises. The Old Man and the Sea.
My neighbor reads Hemingway! This is shocking and completely obvious at the same time. Hemingway writes gruff, manly stories. He and Maguire could be soulmates. Or at least drinking buddies.
Maguire also has a wall-mounted TV and a video game controller. (Of course he does.) But there’s no hulking macho sofa. There’s modular, contemporary seating in midnight blue, with dove gray pillows.
If I’m honest, the throw pillows are a revelation. My sister and I have a thing for pillows. It’s one of the few proofs that we’re related. And here’s a man with accent pillows! I feel tingles. I can’t wait to tell Sadie.
But, no. I won’t be telling Sadie any of this. I’ve broken into my neighbor’s apartment to place evidence of infidelity where he’ll find it. Normal, well-adjusted adults probably don’t do this sort of thing. So I guess I’d better do my business and get out.
Now where to put the cufflink? The kitchen counter would work. His counter is so freaking clean that it would stand out like a beacon. Unless the cheater comes home first and removes it. Maybe his bedside table is a surer bet? It would reduce the chances ofherfinding it.
So I’m off in search of Maguire’s bed. But this causes me a moment of confusion, because I expected this apartment to mirror mine. It doesn’t, though. Maguire has two bedrooms. Fancy! The first one is standing open. And I can see a cop’s hat on the bureau, so I know it’s the right room. I tiptoe inside to choose a bedside table and—
