Page 3 of Things We Fake
“The old guy sounds promising,” Jesse interjected. “V-Ps must make good money. He could be your sugar daddy.”
“A teacher with money? That’s an oxymoron.” I laughed. “Besides, Fred still lives with his mother.”
“A Momma’s boy? Ugh!” Nikki shook her head. “There’s probably more life in the corpses in my morgue than in that guy. He’s definitely not the kind of stiff I’d want in my bed.”
“Nor me in mine.” I turned to Ange. “So, what’s this guy, Sam, like?”
Ange speared an olive in her glass and popped it into her mouth. “You’re meeting him here tomorrow at 1:30. He’s an accountant. He’s friends with my accountant. I only met him once briefly, but I thought he was really good-looking. That’s all I know about him. You’ll have to discover the rest.”
“Great. I suppose that will be the most excitement I’ll get this weekend.”
“Come on, our Uber’s here,” Jesse said.
The girls and I headed out into the cold, and we went our separate ways.
Jesse and I lived in the same building. Once we reached home, we climbed out of the car and a blast of icy wind propelled me across the sidewalk. Slipping and sliding on my heeled boots with the dexterity of Bambi on ice, I managed to make it to the bottom of the stairs.
“There’s nothing I like better than snow on Christmas Eve, but it’s frigging April,” I said through my chattering teeth. “It’s spring. The calendar says so.”
Jesse chuckled. “Take it up with Mother Nature.”
We hurried through the wet drizzle and climbed the six steps up to the veranda, Jesse as sure footed as a mountain goat, me grabbing the railing to stay upright.
“You really need to work on your balance; those heels will be the death of you,” she tossed over her shoulder.
I harrumphed, knowing damn well she was right, but I would never give up those precious three inches.
“Hi, Sue, Jesse.” Sebastian, my superhot next-door neighbor, held the door open for us as he went out. “Nice spring weather, huh?”
“Bite me.” Jesse shoved past him.
I smiled at Sebastian. “Don’t mind Jess, she’s having a bad day.”
“She’s always having a bad day,” Sebastian muttered, closing the door behind him.
“What’s your beef with Sebastian?” I asked Jesse as we climbed the stairs.
“I don’t have a beef or anything else with him. Casanova’s not my type.” She stopped in front of her door on the first floor. “Talk tomorrow.”
“Goodnight.”
I climbed another floor, my fingers frozen as I unlocked my door.
Like many of the residential buildings in Greenwich Village, ours sheltered an eclectic group of tenants, some who’d lived here longer than I’d been alive. Our building consisted of three floors and a basement—four apartments per floor and another in the basement for the building’s superintendent. Mr. Gore kept the place spic and span, but rarely did anyone see him. I had a theory that, like werewolves and vampires, he only came out at night.
Living in Manhattan wasn’t cheap, but if I wanted to stay here and be close to the school, forking out more than a third of my income for rent was the only choice I had. After rent, bills and groceries, there wasn’t much left of my salary at the end of each month. It was a price I willingly paid to be close to my friends—and as far away from home as I could get.
While Nikki and I were both from Warwick and had known each other forever, Jesse was the first one I’d bonded with. Her dad, who’d owned a hardware store on Houston, had lived in the apartment below mine and we had been neighbors for several years. Jesse had lived in an apartmentabove the hardware store. When her dad died two years ago, she’d moved into his place. The tragedy of his death had turned Jesse and me from neighbors into best friends.
I set off to treat myself. I heated a frozen entrée for dinner, redid the clear polish on my nails, and followed a tutorial for a DIY wine facial. Since my parents owned a vineyard and winery, I was well aware of the benefits of wine. Being the reflection of an American mother and an Italian father, DIY was my middle name.
I crossed over to the window to close the drapes, the dark glass reflecting my image. I burst out laughing. Dressed in an old chenille robe, my hair pushed back off my face by a purple sweatband to keep it off the sticky dark pink facial mask, I was a sight.
I thought about what my friends had said. Was I a people pleaser? Maybe. I just disliked conflict. Was that really such a terrible thing? I liked to think I could hold my ground when it counted. I wasn’t a doormat. But if I could avoid drama, why wouldn’t I? Keeping the peace wasn’t cowardice—it was strategy. Right?
I shook my head, reached for the wine bottle and poured some of the red Merlot I’d brought from my last visit home several months ago—one of my father’s signature wines. Carlo Morelli’s Merlot was famous, even beyond the limits of my little town.
The phone rang—it was Mrs. Hoffman, one of my upstairs neighbors.
