“He bought some books today and needed them dropped off.” I rest my head in my hand as I watch him pour two cocktails, one for him and one for me. He throws a cardboard coaster in front of me and deposits a martini glass before me with some kind of fruity, muddled mixture floating in the bottom. I don’t care how terrible it looks, Bryson makes the best cocktails I’ve ever tasted.
“Bottoms up, darling,” he says, lifting his glass and pointing to mine with his free hand.
I take a sip, my face puckering. This may be his strongest creation yet.
“Anyway, we were having a nice conversation,” I said. “And then I made a comment about how he has a baby and yet he screws all these women all the time and how I didn’t understand it.”
Bryson cringes from head to toe, the veins in his thin neck straining as he shrinks down.
“Calypso, why?” He drags his words until they fade out. “All you had to do was ask him to keep his noise down and strut off like the adorable Little House on the Prairie sweetheart you are.”
My cheeks burn. I wish I had an answer, something better than, “I was nervous” or “The way he stared at me made my thoughts jumble and I couldn’t think straight.” He was so cute, standing there in his doorway with messy hair like he’d just taken a nap. And when I saw him carry the baby to her room, he was so tender and sweet with her and she was so tiny in his tatted arms.
All the anger and resentment I’d been harboring toward my faceless neighbor boiled to the surface the second I found myself entertaining the notion that I might be wildly attracted to this Vegas playboy.
“We were chatting and everything was going well,” I say. “And then the image of him fucking some Vegas dancer popped into my head, and suddenly I remembered how tired I was, and it all went out the window.”
His eyes drag the length of me as he pulls in another sip. “Such a sweet little fireball you are. You’re not sure if you want to be angry or peaceful half the time, and I love it. Never a dull moment with you, doll.”
Bryson wags a finger in the air and places his glass on the ledge before strutting off to help the couple at the end of the bar.
We weren’t allowed to be angry in Shiloh Springs. We weren’t allowed to question authority or confront anyone on their unsavory behaviors. Instead, we were encouraged to talk to Father Nathaniel about it and let him deal. He’d sweep it all under the rug in his own special way, and we were supposed to be grateful for that.
“So what now?” Bryson returns, swiping what’s left in the martini shaker and topping off my drink. “He’s your neighbor, right? You’ll run into him again. Going to apologize?”
“I’m going to avoid him,” I announce, sitting up straight.
“Psh. Honey, you’re going to bake him some cookies and write him an apology. Tell him he can screw all the women he wants as long as you don’t hear so much as a sound of a panty melting to the ground.”
“If I bake him cookies, he’ll think I like him. And he probably already thinks I’m crazy.” I bury my face in my hands. “We were having such a nice chat, and then I got all weird and scurried off like some psychopath. I’m so embarrassed, Bryson.”
“Cookies.” He glances up at the ceiling like he’s deep in thought. “Oatmeal chocolate chip.”
“Why oatmeal chocolate chip?”
“Because they’re wholesome and unsexy. Like you.”
“Thanks.”
“Listen, girl. You’re adorable, but you are not sexy. You’re not bringin’ it. You could be sexy if you wanted. You choose not to be.” His quirky delivery makes it sting a little less, like the swift rip of a Band-Aid on a day-old injury. “But my point is, it’s a benign gesture.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not baking him cookies.” I finish my drink and glance at my office door. I have a good couple of hours’ worth of bookkeeping to do, and I’m a week behind on inventory. How I envy Presley and Bryson. They get the easy jobs.
“Where are you going?” Bryson asks when I rise.
“My office. To work.”
His eyes snap to the ceiling and back to me. “Fine. Be that way.”