Inevitable - Kristen Granata Page 0,56
help change so many lives. You’ve worked so hard for this moment.”
I lucked out when I found my one-bedroom apartment in SoHo. There was a vacant space downstairs that was also available for rent, and the landlord gave me a great price for it since I’d be living right above it.
Mom and Deanna put in so much time helping me renovate the space, and we transformed it into my dream art studio. I owe a lot to them. Tonight’s the grand opening, and though I have them by my side, I still feel a hollowness inside my chest.
A spot that belongs to Graham.
“Have you reached out to him?” Mom asks gently, knowing where my mind often wanders to.
I shake my head. “I don’t know what I’d say.”
“You don’t have to have that all figured out before you call him. Just start with a simple hello. Let it go from there.”
After everything we went through, after all the time that has passed, I’m not sure a hello would be that simple.
As I look around at my studio, sadness pulls at my gut, deep down, where I’ve locked away all my feelings for Graham. Part of me wishes he could be here to share this moment with me tonight. It was, after all, his idea: An art studio for at-risk teens and people suffering with depression.
Deanna struts back over to us. “Any neighbor sightings today?”
“No. Things have been pretty quiet next door all week.”
“And you sent him an invite for tonight’s opening, right?”
“Or her—the neighbor could be a her. And yes, I sent an invite.”
Deanna’s convinced the tenant next door to my art studio is a male. The space had been vacant for a while, but just two months ago, the sound of power drills buzzed through the wall we share. The frosted windows made it impossible for Deanna to snoop, and the door is always locked. Just a lone sign hangs from the window, our only clue: Kickboxing Classes Coming Soon.
“Let me see the note again.”
My eyes roll before the words leave my mouth. “Dee, you’ve read the note enough times. You should have it memorized by now.”
Mom stifles a laugh. “I think I have it memorized by now.”
Deanna ignores us both and yanks open a drawer behind my desk, pulling out the crisp white paper. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t a female’s handwriting.”
“Because Dee’s a detective now,” I mutter to Mom.
“And a woman definitely wouldn’t address another woman by starting with Hey Neighbor.” Deanna holds the letter in front of my face, as if looking at it for the gazillionth time will suddenly change my mind.
I snatch it from her and stare down at the small, neat letters scratched onto the paper:
Hey Neighbor,
Hope I haven’t been making too much noise for you. Thanks for the invite to your grand opening. Looking forward to seeing you there.
“See?” Deanna stabs the paper with her index finger. “It’s totally a dude.”
“You don’t know that.”
Deanna quirks a brow. “Wanna bet? I bet the owner of that gym is a hot, buff, deliciously sexy man. I’ll even go as far as to say he’s tall, dark, and handsome. In his twenties. Single.”
“Want to guess his zodiac sign too?” Mom asks.
I chuckle. “I bet the business owner next door is a female in her forties. Divorced with two kids. I’m picturing a blond with an athletic physique.”
We shake on it.
“What should we wager?”
Deanna flips her hair over her shoulder. “When I’m right, you’ll have to go on a date with him.”
I scoff. “No way. No deal.”
“You seem so sure that the owner isn’t a man.” She shrugs. “You shouldn’t have anything to be worried about.”
“Fine. And if I’m right? You’ll have to clean this place for a week.”
“Done.” Deanna smacks her hands together, giddy as if she’s already won.
She’s been on me about dating. I guess it’s better than the first six months she was on me about calling Graham.
I hand the letter back to her and wipe my palms on my jeans. “Are you sure I look okay?”
Mom wraps her arm around my shoulders. “You look perfect. Totally Eva.”
Deanna nods. “This isn’t some fancy-schmancy art gallery on the Upper East Side. These kids need to see the real you.”
A knock at the door pulls me from my worried thoughts. On the other side of the glass stands a man wearing a cap that reads 1-800-FLOWERS. He’s holding a colorful bouquet of mixed flowers.
“I have a delivery for Miss Evangeline Montalbano,” he says.
“That’s me.” I take