Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
I annotated the diagram with my own corrections, gave myself six spaces, and left it on his front step before opening hours. Then I watched from my window for twenty minutes. Waiting. Watching.
His reaction was worth it. He came outside, looked at the diagram, looked at my window like he knew I was watching, and I swear I saw him snort before he went back inside.
The noise complaints are my favorite part of the whole mess. Sullivan's gets loud after ten. I didn't mind the music at first. I'm up late anyway, baking, reading, or staring at my business plan, wondering if I've made a catastrophic mistake. Or, sure that I have made a catastrophic mistake, trying to detect precisely where it is. Is it hiding in plain sight?
But Tom filed a noise complaint about my contractors at 7 AM, which was a legal and reasonable hour, and the city sent him a form letter about appropriate construction times. So I filed one back about the nightly music, and the city sent him another form letter, and I framed mine and put it on my wall next to the shelves.
Like I said, petty is my middle name.
I eat the second scone and think about the fact that I am in an active rivalry with my neighbor, a rivalry I am maintaining through bureaucratic channels and passive-aggressive gestures, and neither of us is going to be the first to stop.
This is a situation I created, all because I wanted to press his buttons for being rude and arrogant.
I did this. All of it. And I'm choosing not to regret it.
Someone's walking to me, and I look up, expecting Mike, but it's Jason.
He's carrying two beers in glasses cold enough to leave condensation rings on my palm when he hands me one. I take it because it's surprisingly good—some local IPA that's not too bitter—and I'm not going to say that out loud where it might travel back to Tom.
"Peace offering," Jason says, grinning. "From the neutral party."
I like Jason. He's kind and loves talking about his wife, Sarah. I like people who are in love.
"How's Sarah feeling?"
Jason beams. "She's good. Finally over the morning sickness, but now she has this craving for carnitas that is making my life extremely complicated. I've driven to this taqueria thirty minutes from home four times this week."
"You learning to make them yourself, yet?"
"I tried last weekend. She said they were 'fine,' which in Sarah-speak means I should stick to my day job." I can't stop smiling because his affection is so visible that it's almost embarrassing to witness. "But I'm getting better. I've watched six YouTube videos and read blogs. I'm basically a carnitas expert now."
William Shakespurr stretches slowly, front paws reaching forward, back arching. Jason notices and raises his beer in salute.
"The cat's chosen sides, huh?"
"Apparently."
"Smart cat." He says it lightly, but there's something underneath it I can't quite read. "Tom's been running Sullivan's for five years since his uncle left it to him."
I don't know what to do with this information, so I just nod.
"He comes down in the morning, leaves at 3 AM, seven days a week. Tips his own staff out on slow nights when the register's light." Jason pauses and tips his glass from side to side. "He's good at it. The bar, I mean. He's good at taking care of people."
I think about Tom standing in my doorway one week ago, and "taking care of people" does not fit anywhere in that picture. But Beth said something similar, and now Jason's saying it, and I'm collecting these pieces of information about Tom without meaning to.
Sullivan's door opens before I can respond.
Tom comes through it and sees me and Jason on the stop. Something in his expression shifts.
Jason grins. "Come join us."
"I'm working."
"You're always working."
Tom looks at me then, directly, and whatever ease I'd built over the last ten minutes with Jason disappears. Not gradually. All at once, like someone flipped a switch. I know I'm doing it. I watch myself do it.
My posture changes. Something about his presence activates a version of myself I don't particularly recognize—someone who has a response loaded before he's said anything worth responding to.
See, I am naturally sweet. I do not have a sarcastic bone in my body … that I know of.
Tom has somehow located one and is apparently committed to finding it every time.
"Nice poster," he says, looking at the Black Sabbath framed poster by the window. I was supposed to carry it to my apartment upstairs, but it helps keep up the lie. My lie.
"Thanks. It's signed."
"By who?"
"Probably Ozzy or Tony. It’s a scrawl, but an O looks prominent to me."
His jaw does the thing where it tightens just slightly, and I know I've scored a point in whatever game we're playing. "You get a lot of vintage stuff for a new bar."