He agrees: “My sparkling company is more than enough compensation.”
“You know what would be nice compensation? The twenty dollars you owe me.”
“Oh. That. Yes.” There’s the sound of empty-tub-squeaking; he’s either getting comfier or extracting himself. “I will absolutely pay you back as soon as I find my wallet. My next scheduled Good Samaritan is taking their time on that.”
Must be nice to put your full faith in the universe. “Did you cancel your cards?”
“Ruthie, they canceled themselves long ago.” He groans something that sounds like urggg-I’m-a-mess. In his husky voice now, he adds, “Ever maxed a card out, Tidy Girl?”
What a ludicrous question. “I take all forms of payment. Bank transfer, PayPal, Venmo, Western Union. Gold bullion. Pennies.” When he doesn’t reply or laugh, I ask, “Your dad owns this place, but you don’t have twenty bucks?”
“Please stop bringing up what my dad has. He and I are two different people. He has his things. I have mine.”
(It really sounds like Teddy has no things.)
How weird that it’s the son of a rich guy who is making me appreciate all the luxuries I have. Soap and towels. “Why aren’t you working at your tattoo studio now? What happened?”
“Alistair told me I can’t go back until I buy my share in Fairchild, one hundred percent, in full. It was one of those all-or-nothing ultimatums. I’ve never seen him so mad before.” He falls silent.
I can feel his changed mood through the wall and my water has gone cold. What he said is true: We are the kind of neighbors who share everything now. “Are you still there?”
“Hmmm.”
I try to picture him now, lying in that dusty ancient tub. “I’ll make you some dinner. And I’ve got a spare toothbrush.”
“No, I’ve realized you’ve done more than enough for me. Good night, Tidy Girl.” What kind of person tattoos TAKE on their own hand, anyway? Apparently, someone who’s acutely aware that that’s what he does.
Every bath I’ve ever had, I’ve lain here listening to the lick of water on the edges of the tub and my own pulse. I’m back to where I’ve always been, just floating, completely alone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’m surprised to find Teddy slumped over the tiny table in our shared courtyard when I open my front door in the morning. “Good morning.”
“Morn,” is the slurred reply. He’s drawing in a sketchbook, but he flips it closed when I approach. He notices my mug. “Oh, my, fucking, God.”
“Would you like some coffee, Theodore Prescott?”
A bleary eye blinks through his tousled hair. “I would marry you for coffee.”
I absolutely itch to go inside for my hairbrush, to bring this mess back to glass-shine perfection. But that’s his strategy, right? He’s attracting females with his plumage. “No proposal necessary. How do you take it?”
“Black and sweet.” He’s drawing again, but closes the book again when I return.
I spent a long time thinking about how he retreated last night. It’s important that from now on, Teddy earns everything he gets. “I want one drawing for this cup of coffee. No freebies.”
“Sure.” He opens to a fresh page. “What do you want?”
“A tortoise.” I set the mug down.
“That reminds me.” The pen goes to the page, and he begins a long, flat curve. “I did a terrible thing last night. I’m just working myself up to tell you.”
I wait, but he won’t volunteer it. “Were you comfortable last night?”
“If my Fairy God-Neighbor hadn’t looked out for me, I would have cried myself to sleep. Thank you so much.”
“That’s okay.”
Full disclosure: I tried to leave him alone to fend for himself. I finished my bath, ate my chicken Kiev and vegetables, washed dishes, and spent time approving new Heaven Sent You Here forum members. I took my late-night walk around the grounds, flashlight in hand, completing the checklist I’ve got in my phone.
I finished up, as I always do, at the western edge, where I hung from the chain-link fence with both hands and listened for motorbikes. I probably looked like a prisoner.
As I was brushing my teeth, Teddy still wasn’t back. I felt terrible about my lack of charity, especially to the boss’s son. Like a model Fairy God-Neighbor, I left on the courtyard table a stack of the following items:
•One set of sheets (cloud print)
•One towel and matching bath mat
•One quilt
•One toothbrush (red)
•One roll of toilet paper
•One spare pillow from my bed (how strangely blushworthy)
Like a mom, I say, “Your mattress is queen size. Anyway, have a good day with the Parlonis. I’m sure you’ll do great.” I go to leave.
“Wait. Something bad happened last night when I was walking back from the parking lot. I knocked but you didn’t answer. Were you asleep?” He drags a hand through his hair. It shines like a raven’s wing, blue black, slightly evil, totally beautiful. With a groan, he reaches under the table and brings out a torn Kleenex box. Inside is a golden bonnet tortoise that doesn’t look so great. “I stepped on it, and now you’ll have to fill out a form.”
“I had my headphones on.” After I’d left the bundle of supplies out for him, I’d had a sudden paranoia that he’d interpret it as a love token. I swaddled myself in bed with my laptop and turned up the volume of my Heaven Sent episode. I tried too hard to not hear him return.
“I took it to the after-hours vet clinic, but they only stabilized it with painkillers and told me to find a reptile specialist.” He nudges a lettuce leaf closer to the tortoise’s disinterested face. “The crack it made under my shoe. I still hear it and feel it.”
I’m sure no one has ever felt so rotten about stepping on a tortoise. “I’m sorry, Teddy.” His expression falls. “No, it’s not time to call a priest just yet. We can fix it.”
I’m grateful for the practical task. I get my kit, put on gloves, and we lift the injured tortoise out. It’s a small one, the size of a deck of cards. “Well, it can move all its legs. That’s good.”
“That’s what they said last night. But here.” He indicates the cracked shell. “They’ve put a gel in there to stop infection, but it’s not fixed. They didn’t have the stuff they need. Lucky I live next door to a reptile specialist.”
“I know a couple of things, but I’m not an expert.” I follow the crack and try to visualize the damage, based on past x-rays I’ve seen. “The shell needs to be repaired with resin. Maybe wire for this section.”
“Can you do that?” He’s impressed when I nod. “You really are like a vet. Is that what your goal is? Renata talked over you yesterday in the interview.” He picks up his pen and recommences sketching. The tortoise is coming to life on the page. He runs the pen along, maybe like a tattoo needle, linking lines, filling in texture.
I tell the tortoise, “My childhood dream was to be a vet, once upon a time. But not anymore, obviously. I’m a babysitter. These guys are valuable on the black market, apparently. It’s part of my reason for living on-site.”