Page 50 of You'll Love it Here

“And did Irene ask you to booby-trap the laundry room with underwear?” he spits, raising his eyebrows. “Should I tell Irene about that?”

I glance toward Norm’s door, hoping he’s got those big earphones on, before remembering his gaming hiatus. Dammit.

Behind Carmen's reddening face, I see his suite is cluttered with junk, every surface buried under chaos. Then, on the counter, my eyes catch on something familiar.

“How about I let Irene know you’ve been messing inside the garbage bins?” I fire back, gesturing toward the garish, fish-shaped pepper mills I spotted in the trash the other day. “Are you the one screwing up the sorting? You know, we got fined for that. Maybe I should let Irene know how that happened.”

He holds my stare, his fingers twitching against his thighs. We’re in a stand-off. This is risky. I could’ve pushed some button to set him off.

But after a long pause, he pushes his door wide and silently backs into the apartment.

“Very well, I’ll just be a moment. No need to wait around while I tidy.” He crouches and manages another box into his arms.

He definitely has something he’s hiding in his suite. I suppress my mind’s attempts to wander into deranged territory.

“That’s not all,” I continue. “I actually came here because I looked into your lease terms, and since you’ve been given ample warning about the electrician appointment, we’re going to have to let him into your suite at the appointed time tomorrow, whether you’re around or not.”

Carmen freezes on the spot with the packages he’d gathered. “Are you saying you’re going to break into my apartment tomorrow?” There’s a threatening edge to his voice.

“I’m saying I’m going to let the electrician in during his final appointed time whether you’re here or not.”

His eyes give nothing of his thoughts away, but his knuckles whiten around the packages.

This guy is used to getting his way for too long with Irene’s management. He could very well just call her right now and complain and I’d be hooped, but I have nothing to lose if we don’t get the inspections sorted.

“I just need another week to get all ready for the guy. If Irene were managing the place she’d let me.”

It’s the shake in his voice, the sweat at his temple. His nervousness is making me all kinds of nervous myself. He’s probably going to go to Irene and complain now. “I understand that, but that time was already given, and now that we’ve learned the issue about the wires, getting this done in time is essential to prevent a more serious fire.”

His eyes flash and he seems to decide something. “Well, I may as well pull the Band-Aid off now. Come on in, we need to have a proper chat.” He waves me over as he opens his door.

It takes me a moment to realize what’s happening. Against my better senses, I take a tentative step into his apartment. Immediately, the air thickens with dust and an odd kind of dread.

I don’t know what I was picturing his place to be, but every surface is covered in items that are both random and out of place: An old-timey sewing machine takes over the kitchen table. Piles of vinyl records are stacked on the counters. Shelves sagging under the weight of a plethora of trinkets hold up the back wall where a normal person would put their couch.

But it’s the tightness in his fists, the fiddling of his fingers, that keeps drawing my attention. I have no move but to swallow my fear and say, “You have such interesting things.”

Instantly, I make eye contact with a creepy-ass porcelain doll that seems to be sucking the souls from its surrounding area.

I thought this guy was sketchy, but this shrine to weird garbage—and his nervousness at me seeing it—puts my instincts on high alert.

He smiles hesitantly. “Please, have a seat.” He splays his palm toward the one chair in the room that a person could feasibly sit on, even though it’s a little stained and holey in areas where I pretend not to notice.

I don’t sit down, but he asks, “Can I offer you a drink?” He weaves to his kitchen and pulls open his fridge door. “Lucky you, I have some Fanta.” He fishes out a half-full two-liter bottle and starts pouring it into a cup before I can even reply.

He holds it out for me, and I don’t want to be rude, so I accept the mug with the scratched Flames logo on it and politely fake a sip before resting it on his counter. It looks flat and smells overly sweet and concerningly bright yellow.

He pours the last of the bottle into another mug and leans against the opposite side of his counter.

Maybe it takes a true man of culture to know that an old mug while in a musty apartment is the proper way to serve a Fanta?

“Well,” Carmen starts, suddenly looking sheepish. “You got me. I suppose it’s all over then.”

Again, he shakes his head, clearly stressed. He eyes the console in the corner where a TV would normally go. Instead, there’s a tripod set up for a phone camera. A black cloth is stapled to the opposite wall and on top of it is a sign that reads:

#onemansjunk

I don’t know what the fuck this is, but I try my best to avoid looking at his IRL “junk” as his hands twitch nervously next to it.