“I wanted to impress you.” He smiled sheepishly. “It doesn’t feel like it’s working.”
But the funny thing was that itwasworking. The last boy I went on a date with showed up in a T-shirt and jeans. There was nothing wrong with that, but I loved how Brady put in an effort. I loved that he wore an uncomfortable tie because he wanted to impress me. Most college boys wouldn’t have bothered. “I think it’s working more than you think. But you can still take it off.”
“No way,” he said. “If it’s working, I’m leaving it on.”
He was cute. I rememberreallyliking him. Not to the point of ever saying the L-word or even close, but I liked him just as much as it was possible for me to like anyone.
Why on earth did I break up with him? I really can’t remember. It’s driving me nuts.
When the hour is up and another bartender comes in to relieve Brady, I practically leap out of my seat. He comes over to me, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Ready?”
I nod. “How far do you live from here?”
“Ten minutes. I’m right off El Camino.”
For a second, I consider asking if he’ll give me a ride to his place and back afterward. But no. I want my car with me.
“I’ll follow you,” I say.
“Sure,” he says. “Let me get your phone number.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “My phone number? What for?”
“We should exchange numbers in case you can’t find my place.”
I drop my phone into my purse and hold the bag protectively to my chest. “I’ll be able to find you. I’m not too worried. It’s not brain surgery.”
“Hmm. I guess you would know.”
“Yes, I would.” (I considered brain surgery as a profession, but I didn’t like cutting into the skull as much as I like cutting into the abdomen.)
He sighs. “You don’t want me to have your number. I get it. But let me at least give you mine. Okay?”
Fine. I take my phone out of my purse and allow him to read off the digits of his phone number. I plug them in under his name, being careful not to accidentally click on his number, because then he’ll have mine. I’m never going to call him.
He lives ten minutes south of Christopher’s, just on the border of San Jose. His neighborhood looks quiet but slightly seedy. The houses look broken down, the lawns almost universally in need of maintenance. Fortunately, I don’t have a fancy car like Philip does, or I’d be worried it would get jacked.
“It’s okay to park out here?” I ask Brady when I get out of my car behind his.
“Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”
I look over at the small house we parked in front of. It’s an old off-white house, which is just as decrepit as the others on the block, with peeling paint and one of the windows boarded up. The cement stairs to the front door are crumbling. On the front porch, there’s a rocking chair, swaying gently. For a moment, I’m certain it’s empty. But then I can make out the outline of an emaciated body in the chair. Silver hair glows in the moonlight.
Brady raises his hand in greeting. “Hi, Mrs. Chelmsford.”
The skeleton raises its right hand, but doesn’t say a word. Even though it’s not that cold out, I shiver.
“Mrs. Chelmsford owns the house,” Brady explains to me as we walk around back. “But she’s a little out of it and I did the rental agreement through her niece. She just sits on the porch most of the time. Fortunately, I’ve got my own entrance.”
I don’t know what it is that makes me uneasy about that old woman rocking back and forth on the porch. Maybe because of how still and quiet she is. If she hadn’t raised her hand in greeting, I would have been sure she wasdead.
He yanks open the screen door, then fits his key into the lock for the door behind it. There are stairs inside, and he waves to me to follow him up the dark, narrow staircase. I don’t usually get claustrophobic, but I’m relieved when we get to his front door.
Brady’s apartment is small, which isn’t a surprise considering the size of the house. I look around, taking in the tiny living area with a beat-up old futon and an armchair that looks like it may have been rescued from the side of the road. Brady watches my expression.
“I didn’t get the best of our furniture in the divorce,” he says. “Actually, I got nothing.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. And it doesn’t.
