Page 6 of The Virgin Gift (The Gift 2)
“You could have asked to crash at my place,” Jake answered. “But you didn’t. You’re crashing with her.”
“She’s down the hall, and you’re a mile away,” I said, pointing out the obvious.
“A mile is not that far, and I’m not personally offended that you didn’t ask. I’m just saying, actions speak louder than words, and yours say you have it bad for your neighbor.”
But if actions spoke, so did inaction. I’d never pursued anything with Nina, and therefore I was in the clear. “No, my actions say I’m a wise man, choosing to keep my commute exactly the same.”
“Yes, your commute. Of course.” I could practically hear him roll his eyes.
“And on that sarcastic note, I definitely look forward to you buying all the drinks this weekend,” I said, then we ended the call when I pulled into the building lot and headed for the elevator, shooting up to the tenth floor as I replied to the painter, letting him know that two more days was fine, but I hoped they’d be done no later. My parents were flying out next week and would be staying in the guest room.
When I reached Nina’s door, I rapped twice. I didn’t want to barge in on her. Growing up with sisters, you learned to knock on every door every time or else they’d put your head in a sling. I was bigger, taller, and stronger than my two sisters, but that didn’t matter. There was nothing, no death ray, no tractor beam, no master ninja move stronger than the headlock administered by a sister who’d been walked in on.
But Nina didn’t respond, so I took out the key and unlocked the door.
“Yoo-hoo. Honey, I’m home,” I joked, calling out when I was inside.
It had become my regular greeting the last few nights. She’d usually respond with something like “I’m just grabbing the casserole from the oven” or “Let me take my curlers out.”
But the walls echoed. She wasn’t here.
She’d probably headed out for a quick errand or to grab an Earl Grey latte at her favorite shop down the street. The woman was addicted.
I dropped my keys on the entryway table, scanning her place, as had become my custom these last few days. It was so her, so feminine but not girly. Pillows in rich royal shades of purple and blue lined her couch, and framed photos of snowfalls, autumn leaves, and sun-drenched beaches hung on the walls. Her photos, since she snapped landscapes when she wasn’t shooting bodies.
As I surveyed the scene, my eyes landed on a Post-it note on the fridge. Adam, did you know that the heat shield for the Apollo missions could sustain temperatures of up to five thousand degrees Fahrenheit? Can you even imagine how hot that is?
Smiling, I grabbed the note and folded it up, tucking it into my pocket. I opened the fridge, cracked open a beer, and scrolled through the Whole Foods app to place a dinner order for tonight, adding red, orange, and green peppers, along with carrots and chicken for the stir-fry I’d make.
As I hit send, my phone dinged with a new voicemail on my messenger app. It was from my buddy Brandon, who worked in Paris now. Ah, he must have snagged the number of a TV writer he’d been trying to track down for me, a hotshot who he thought might be perfect for one of the shows my company was helming.
I hit play as he rattled off his usual variation on a greeting—“a stunning redhead walking down the street just stopped to give me her number”—yes, his usual greetings were details of his alleged prowess with the French women.
I laughed because he was so full of shit. Well, he’d never had a problem with the ladies in college, but we both knew he wasn’t trying to get strangers to stop, drop, and get on their knees for him. He was all talk. All facade. It was how he dealt with a past he wasn’t over yet.
Someday I hoped he would be. Someday soon.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I muttered as I laughed. “Get to the good stuff.”
He reeled off the screenwriter’s name and number so quickly I blinked, missing most of it.
Grabbing a pen, I hunted around for a sheet of paper when I spotted one of Nina’s ever-present notebooks. I crossed the distance to the kitchen counter to write down the number.
As I replayed the message, I flipped open the notebook to scratch down the digits, but the second I saw her writing on the page, the pen slipped from my fingers.
The voice on the message turned Charlie Brown–warbly.
My head swam with images.
What on earth was I looking at?
Was this what I thought it was?
This fantastic, delicious, filthy list.
In sweet, clever, brainy Nina’s handwriting.
My friend.
My neighbor.
My deliciously depraved friend and neighbor.
