Landlord Wars(23)

“Yet not so nice last night with my sister, was he?” I imagined Jack was like any person licking their wounds after a breakup. But that didn’t excuse the sexist crap toward Elise.

Max’s gaze was hard and unfeeling for a long beat. “Fine. Consider the lease broken,” he said and shut the door in my face.





A day after my lovely encounter with Max, he sent a brief message via Jack that my deposit check would arrive in a day or two since he “trusted me to move out by the weekend.”

As easy as it had been for Max to usher me out, Jack wasn’t so happy. “What is Max talking about? You just moved in.”

I watered the outdoor plants I’d bought from my boss at a discount for the apartment niche between our two bedrooms. It was too small for a courtyard but let in light and was the perfect spot for greenery. I’d never had space at Mom’s for plants. It had been a pure luxury to have it here.

I’d questioned myself multiple times this morning about what the hell I thought I was doing moving out of this apartment. Then I remembered Max slamming the door in my face, and my hesitation evaporated. “It has nothing to do with you,” I told Jack.

I’d been putting off telling him about the move because of how much I liked him. But my time was up.

“Is it because of Max?” he asked.

I tested the soil moisture of one of the plants with my finger, avoiding the question.

“Because if so,” Jack said, “give him a chance. He comes across wound up at first, but he’ll calm down. He really is a great guy.”

I snipped off a dead leaf a little too violently. “I’ll have to take your word for that.” I felt bad doing this to Jack last minute, but it was the right thing.

He sighed. “Sophia, I’ll leave the lease available for the next couple of weeks. Please take some time to reconsider. If you do, I promise I’ll put a lock and bolt on your chocolate so Max can’t get to it.” He scrubbed a hand down the back of his head and mumbled, “Max and his sweet tooth.”

But it wasn’t just the chocolate. It was every word Max uttered, every accusation.

I stood and gave Jack a light smile. “That’s very kind, but you don’t need to hold the lease. Let’s grab a drink after I get resettled. I’ll be your wing woman the next time you go out.”

He chuckled. “I probably could use that. Speaking of progress in the romance department, have you heard from your date?”

I slammed the heel of my palm to my forehead. “Shit. I forgot to return his call.”

I’d been so distraught over the idea of moving out that I hadn’t thought about the guy Victor had set me up with, even though he’d called for a second date. I couldn’t get over the fact I’d compared him to the devil upstairs, and now whenever I thought of my date, I thought of Max Burrows. It wasn’t helping my mental state.

Jack laid a brotherly hand on my shoulder. “Either way, I’m available for wingman duties too.” His gaze wandered off. “I could use the distraction.”

That was cryptic, but it wasn’t like I was making sense these days either. It was insane to move from this place, but I couldn’t get over the strain of living beneath Max.

I swung by Mom’s the next afternoon after work to assess the situation at home, taking in the two-story Mediterranean revival. It stood out even though the houses in our neighborhood were nearly identical.

Right before my father died, he’d hired workers to repaint the exterior a pale tangerine my mom had chosen. The old place had been this warm shade of sunset, but now the chips and cracks in the orange revealed a gray subsurface and discoloration from dust and dirt. And then there was the white garage door that had never quite hung right—or really, ever been white. The color was a sallow yellow now, and mud-splotched. But my mom refused to repaint the house. She refused a lot of things, and Elise and I had stopped asking.

A shiver ran up my spine. It felt like a year had passed since I’d been home, not less than a month. I was backsliding, and the only way I could justify it was to tell myself it was temporary.

I knocked so as not to surprise Mom, then pulled out my key and opened the front door. My leaving had caused a massive anxiety crisis for my mom that lasted a solid week. After I moved in with Jack, she’d often sounded agitated over the phone. I wasn’t sure what I was in for, and sometimes diving in was easier than dragging it out with a preemptive phone call.

The first thing that hit me when I stepped over the threshold was the smell. Familiar and unwanted, a mixture of dust, mold, and something sweet I could never quite identify. Elise and I had gone to great pains to wash our clothes every week (especially the items hanging in the closet), so the fabric wouldn’t absorb the odor and make us smell when we went out. Whatever nostalgia I’d had for this place had faded a decade ago. Now the smell was like a gut punch that caused an immediate spike of adrenaline and my instinct to flee.

The space that made up the living room and dining area looked exactly the same. I wasn’t sure why I’d hoped my moving out would make a difference. As though fewer people in the house might change things. But if I’d taken a picture the day I left and compared it to now, there’d be no difference. The same newspaper, with an image of a New Year’s Day parade from twelve years ago, dangled precariously at the top of a ceiling-high pile of papers, magazines, and more newspapers. I was terrified to move too close to that particular stack for fear of being buried beneath it.