It isn’t the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out, it’s the pebble in your shoe.
–Muhammad Ali
Bethany
“I did some digging around and got the plans for your building.”
“That’s amazing.” My gaze slides to Brent.
He came over after training, hair still wet, dressed simply in athletic shorts and a white T-shirt. One muscular arm is draped on the back of the couch while he leans back, as gorgeous as ever.
The strain of his biceps against the cotton of his shirt draws my gaze. He’s so delicious. I want to bite him. But I manage to restrain myself.
His face is a bit drawn, though. Is he still tired? We went to bed early last night. Maybe training is wiping him out.
I focus on the video on my phone.
“I’ll email you a copy,” Sam says. “I’m still not convinced it isn’t air in the pipes. Maybe your super lied because they didn’t want to deal with it, but anyway, I found something interesting. It appears there might be a dumbwaiter behind where your closet is.”
“A dumb-a-whatta now?”
“Dumbwaiter. They’re these old mini elevators for shifting objects up and down flights. Like food, laundry, that kind of stuff. They were pretty common in pre-war era apartments. But having space in your walls should be helping to block noises from outside, not creating additional sounds, unless there’s something living in there. Maybe some rats have gotten into the hollow spots. If I’m reading your floor plan right, it’s behind where the closet is now, and since you said that’s where the banging is coming from, I would start there.”
“Thanks, Sam. I owe you one.”
“You owe me two. I also have an intern doing some research on the history of your building. Maybe these kinds of things have been reported before Gwen lived there. I’ll let you know if anything interesting comes up. So, speaking of owing me, uh, is Brent around, by chance?”
I make a concerted effort not to glance over to where Brent’s sitting. “No, he’s got more important things to do than hang around with me. He’s very busy and important.”
Sam frowns. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason. You know, there’s no reason at all I would maybe want to meet only the best tight end of the last two seasons or anything.”
“You like him that much, huh?”
“Bethany.” The phone moves closer so he can give me his intense look but I just end up getting a close-up shot of his nostril. “He’s like the best thing that’s happened to football in at least a decade. He’s a six-four wall of man muscle. He has the best passing distance in the league and awesome hair. I would leave Gemma for him.”
“Would you really?” I clear my throat. “You know, that’s really funny because he’s actually sitting right here.” I turn the phone to put Brent’s face in the screen.
I can no longer see Sam’s expression clearly, which is unfortunate.
It must be good because Brent grins and tries to smother a chuckle. “Hey man, thanks for all your help. I really appreciate the support, too. It’s always nice to meet a real fan.”
There’s silence on the other end and I can’t help but crack up. I’m laughing so hard, I almost drop the phone.
“Bethany!” Sam barks.
“Yep?” I ask through giggles.
“Turn. The phone. Around.”
I adjust the phone to face me and immediately burst into laughter again.
Sam’s gone white. He shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t believe you did that to me,” he whispers.
Brent bites his lips, trying to hold in his laughter.
“You said you wanted to meet him.”
“That’s it. I’m going full-throttle pranks on your ass. You’ll never be safe in this town again.”
I laugh. “Bye, Sam, thanks for your help. I’ll get Brent to send you a jersey.”
“If you make that happen, I might forgive you, but I doubt it. I hope your ass gets haunted for the rest of your life. Don’t ever ask me for help again, you horrible human. You will pay for your crimes against humanity.”
I’m still laughing when he ends the call.
Brent releases a crack of laughter. “That was great. Give me his address and I’ll send him one of our promo packages with a signed jersey and a few cards or something.”
“That would be amazing. Although he’s still going to find a way to get back at me. Sam’s a real prankster.”
“It’s worth it for the laugh alone. You have no idea how much I needed that.”
“Let’s go see if we can find the dumb dumbwaiter.”
We head to the hallway together and open up the closet door. I yank on the cord to illuminate the small space. We pull out the clothes hanging up and toss them onto the dresser out in the hallway.
Brent steps in first, his bulky frame taking up a significant portion of the space. He raps on the walls with a knuckle, both of us listening for an echo.
It isn’t until he reaches the very back of the closet that I hear it—a hollow knock.
“I bet this is it,” he says.
“It’s all drywall. There’s no way to get back there without breaking through the wall.” I glance around, looking into the corners. “Maybe there’s a latch like one of those old movies.” I slip further into the closet, bringing me right next to Brent.
He inhales sharply when my hip grazes his.
Swallowing, I attempt to focus on the task at hand, but I am supremely aware of him. I mean, he’s huge. And the closet is teeny tiny. His cologne tickles my nose, his masculine scent threading into my head and wrapping its tendrils around my suddenly heated insides. I inhale slowly.
“It is here?” I ask, resting a hand next to his.
His breathing hitches when our fingers brush.
I glance up to meet his eyes and find him watching me.
His vivid blue eyes are heated and focused on my lips.
My own breathing falters. He’s taking up my vision, sucking the air out of the small space. It feels like he’s everywhere, making it all too easy to imagine him all around me because, well, he is. What would it be like to have him over me? Under me? All that strength and power. The thought makes my stomach heat and thighs clench.
And then his phone chirps in his pocket.
His eyes shut and he swallows hard. “Sorry, I have to take this,” he mutters. In one smooth movement he steps away.
“Hello? Yeah, that’s me. . .”
That’s all I catch of his conversation because the front door opens and shuts gently.
I frown. He had to leave the apartment entirely? I shake my head. It’s none of my business.
The tiny closet feels like a huge empty space. I continue feeling around for a crack in the plaster, trying to focus on the task at hand instead of the strange moment with Brent.
“Hey.”
I jump at the sound of his voice behind me.
“I’ve got to take off. I’ll see you later, back at the apartment?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m going to talk to the super about the dumbwaiters. Maybe they can figure out where it leads. If there’s an access point somewhere or something.”
“Right. Let me know.”
With a small wave and an even smaller smile, he’s gone.
Weird.
It’s probably because I was practically all over him in the closet and we’re just friends and he’s completely revolted by me.
Although I can’t help but wonder . . . what was that call about?
Two hours later I’m dealing with my own annoying phone calls.
Mom.
She’s called me about ten times, rapid-fire.
This is what she does when she’s been drinking. Worse than a telemarketer. And it’s always about something inane, like she needs the number for the movie theater or have I been to the dentist this year.
I can’t deal with her right now. A twinge of guilt flickers through me, but if it were a real emergency, she would leave a message.
I didn’t answer my phone because I was on the other line with the super. He knows nothing about dumbwaiters but promises to look into it and let me know.
I’m not holding my breath.
Brent is MIA the entire rest of the day and I use the time to call Freya. She’s always good for a distraction.
“Hey, sexy girlfriend!” she yells as she answers the phone.
I laugh. “I’m not feeling terribly sexy at the moment.”
“Oh, no. Did you get mugged in Central Park? Did someone on the subway get handsy? Did you scream that Chicago pizza is better in a crowded room and get shanked by a local?”
I laugh. “Not quite. Didn’t Ted tell you?”
“Tell me what? That you’re not banging the tight end for the New York Sharks? Nope. He totally didn’t tell me that.”
I huff. “Banging isn’t happening.”
“Ah ha, that’s why you don’t feel sexy. Doesn’t he know about your magical vag?”
“Clearly not. Maybe you should tell him.”
She laughs. “Maybe Gwen already has. Remember when she came over and we were harassing you about being a super slut?”
“How could I forget?”
“Maybe we should have told her it’s a term of endearment and doesn’t necessarily mean you have multiple STDs and a blown-out vagina.”
“Dude. You should not speak those words again, ever.”
“So seriously though, tell me everything.”
I explain all that’s happened since the last time we talked, about how Brent has been helping me figure out the apartment stuff and what Sam told me.
“Your life is so much more exciting than mine.”
“I doubt that. How’s Dean?”
“Dreamy as usual.”
There’s a knock at the door. “Hold on,” I tell Freya.
It’s Natalie.
“It’s my neighbor’s girlfriend. I’ll call you back.”
We hang up and I open the door.
“Hey, Natalie.”
She’s wearing a pale blouse embroidered with brightly colored robins. Where do they find these bird clothes?
“Martha made you a casserole,” she says by way of greeting.
“That’s . . . so nice.”
Natalie laughs. “It’s okay, I made sure she didn’t do anything crazy. Her dementia is pretty bad, so I’ve been helping Steven watch her before we eat her cooking.”
I take the dish from her. “Thank you.”
“It’s tater tot casserole.”
“I love tater tots.” Did I tell Steven about my love for the tots before? I can’t remember half the things that spew out of my mouth. “Did you want to come in?” I step back to invite her, but she shakes her head.
“Thanks, but I better get back. Steven’s at work and I offered to hang out with Martha until he gets off.”
She leaves and while I’m sticking the casserole in the fridge, my cell starts ringing.
Damn, I’m popular today. But I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Hi. I’m looking for Bethany Connell?” The woman’s voice is crisp and professional.
“This is she.”
“This is Samantha calling from NV Energy account services.”
“Um. Okay.”
“The automatic deduction for your address at 1013 Sky Avenue was rejected. Would you like to make a payment with another card and add a new payment account to your records?”
Mom’s house. Is that why she kept calling me? “That can’t be possible. I had enough money in that account yesterday to cover it.”
“You might need to contact your bank. In the meantime, can you provide us with another card to avoid late charges?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
It takes a few minutes to get my purse and pull out a credit card to give them.
My mind is racing the whole time. I know I had enough in there to last the rest of the month and part of next. What happened?
As soon as I hang up with the utility company, I call the bank and move into the living room so I have more room to pace.
The rep sounds like a co-ed from Southern California. Every sentence ends on a high note like it’s a question, with the word “like” peppered throughout. It’s a sharp contrast to her words.
“So, like, a large sum was withdrawn late last night?”
Money was taken? From my account? She goes on about how there’s, “like, less than a dollar left in your checking and savings and there will be, like, a service charge for maintaining a low balance long-term.”
“But . . .” I find my voice. “I haven’t taken out any large withdrawals. Where was it taken out?”
“You have, like, a second card holder?”
Oh shit. Mom.
She’s listed on the account for emergencies. I had a second debit card, but I lost it in the move.
Or I left it behind.
And then she found it.
I groan, frustration filling my veins with fire. Voice shaking, I have the rep remove Mom’s name and cancel the card. Not that it matters. The damage has been done.
I want to cry. Sob. Shake my fist at the universe that gave me a mother who can’t handle being an adult.
Instead, I hang up with the bank and call the source of all my problems.
“Hey, baby,” she answers, happy and tipsy.
It makes my blood boil over.
I hope she remembers this. “Mom. Why did you take all my money? No, don’t answer, I know why you did it.”
She must hear the anger in my voice. There’s a slight hesitation, and then the defensiveness starts. “I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s my money, too.”
My teeth grit around my words. “Here’s the thing. It’s really not. I removed your name from the account and the card is canceled. I’m calling everyone now and removing my accounts from your utilities, and I’m not paying your property taxes or buying you food anymore. You’re on your own.”
Silence down the line for about three long seconds.
“You can’t do that! I am your mother! I gave birth to you. I raised you.”
And here’s the guilt trip. But I’ve heard it all before. Too many times. “Yeah, well, I’ve been going through the pain of reverse childbirth to you for the last ten years and I’m done.”
“How am I supposed to live?”
“I don’t know, Mother. You can use the retirement check you get every month.”
“It’s not enough to live on.”
“It would be if you stopped spending it on booze.”
She’s quiet and then the wrenching sobs begin. “I can’t believe you’re cutting me off like this. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You’re going to drive me to drink even more.”
Blaming her drinking on everyone but herself. I used to feel bad for her, but I think I’ve run out of the emotion. “I’m not ashamed. I’m not forcing you to do anything. But I am sorry, Mom. Sorry I let you leech off me for so long. Sorry Dad died and you felt you had to escape everything, including me. Sorry you’ve let your addiction ruin our relationship. But I’m not sorry for this. I should have done it a long time ago. When you get sober, you can call me. Otherwise, don’t bother.”
I hang up and burst into tears.