Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
As soon as I’m inside the foyer, I stop at the mailboxes and open mine. Pulling out a handful of mostly junk mail, I see Miss Ina open her apartment door an inch to peek out to see who’s in the hall. Doing the nice thing, I give her a smile. I regret it instantly, because she takes it as an invitation to open the door completely. Miss Ina is eighty years old, a tiny thing with a humpback that makes her appear even smaller than she already is. Her white hair looks like a big puffy cloud on top of her head, and her frail skin is practically transparent, but her brown eyes are so dark, they look almost black. I swear when she looks at you, it’s like she’s looking into your soul. Scanning it for all the wrongs you’ve done in your life. Nothing happens in the house without her knowing about it. She knows everyone’s business—sometimes before they even do.
“We need to talk,” she says as she pushes her walker in front of her and moves out into the entryway.
“How can I help you, Miss Ina?” I ask, watching her hobble closer with her walker squeaking as she sidles up to me.
“I can’t sleep with all the banging around upstairs.”
“Miss Ina, we’ve talked about this. The house is old. It’s not soundproof. Libby and I both try to be quiet, but you can’t expect us to tiptoe around upstairs all the time,” I say as nicely as I can.
She huffs. I do feel bad for her. I know exactly what she’s going through, since there’s a family who lives above us with three small children. We can hear everything they do upstairs—and I mean everything—from the kids playing with cars on the floor to Mrs. and Mr. Kind’s bed banging against the wall at night as they work on a fourth baby.
“I need my rest. You girls need to be more considerate of your neighbors,” she says.
I sigh. I’ve been down this road with her enough times to know that she won’t give up until I agree, even if I don’t really agree with her.
I give in. “We will try to be quieter.”
She huffs again in response. Giving up on making her happy because it’s impossible, I tuck my mail into my bag and scoot around her and her walker. I move toward the stairs.
“Have a great day, Miss Ina!” I call over my shoulder when I’m halfway up the first flight. She doesn’t respond—not that I expected her to.
Unlocking the door to my apartment, I push it open and listen to it groan. I step inside and shut it behind me. Okay, I slam it a little to get it to close—and to piss off Ina. I shrug off my purse and jacket, then lay both of them on the couch. Next, I take off my boots and drop them to the floor near the couch. The apartment is small, just about four hundred square feet. The living room is just inside the front door and is barely big enough for the couch that sits under the pass-through window into the kitchen. The TV is directly across from it. The kitchen is also tiny, but it works for Libby and me since neither of us can cook. The apartment might not be fabulous, but the bathroom is amazing—or rather, my bathtub is. The old claw-foot tub is the only reason I haven’t moved out.
Knowing Libby is at work, I start to undress as I make my way into the bathroom. I have always loved taking baths, and a bath is exactly what I need to relax after the morning’s excitement. Filling up the tub, I dump a handful of bath salts into the water, then climb in. After an hour of soaking, I get out and put on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. I plant myself on the couch in front of the TV with a bowl of Cheerios. I tell myself that I won’t worry about getting my phone back from Wesley until after the weekend.
But I do worry, and when I’m not worrying, I spend every moment thinking about him.
Chapter 2
THAT SO WASN’T PART OF THE PLAN
MAC
Over the past few days, I’ve thought of a hundred different ways I might be able to get my phone back from Wesley without actually having to see him face-to-face. First I thought about breaking into his place and stealing it, but I don’t think that would go over well—he would know it was me if all that was missing was my phone. I also thought about asking my sisters to help me out by dressing up like cable repair workers, but they would ask too many questions, so I don’t bother. I was at a loss until this morning when an idea came to me—a lame idea, but an idea all the same.