2-6-5-3. Red X.
“Fuck!”
2-6-5-3. Red X.
“Shit!”
I typed my code into the keypad a third time with no success.
"Goddammit!" I kicked the wood doorframe of the hundred-year-old Harlem brownstone I'd called home for the past six years.
“Hey, asshole! Shut the fuck up!” a female voice shouted from the ground-level apartment.
I looked over the banister to see a short woman with waist-length, chestnut-colored hair staring up at me, holding a baseball bat.
"Crystal?" It was too dark to see her clearly. I was definitely more than a little buzzed, and my biological mother was the only short woman with long dark brown hair I knew. But why was she holding a baseball bat, and why was her voice different?
With a little difficulty, I walked down the stairs to get a closer look. The woman took a step back as I approached and held the bat higher, tightening her grip on the neck.
"My name is not Crystal, and I live here."
Upon closer inspection—as close as I could get without getting clocked in the head, anyway—I could tell she definitely wasn't Crystal. She was younger, way more beautiful, with pale golden brown skin and she didn't have my birth mother's bright blue eyes. Crystal also moved back to Missouri four years ago. Most importantly, tiny Babe Ruth definitely didn't live in my house. I was drunk, but not that drunk.
"You live in here?" That wasn't exactly how I meant to phrase that, but my brain and my mouth weren't cooperating. Also, I'd become aware that I was leaning against the brick wall of the stoop to support my weight.
"Yes," gorgeous, not-Crystal hissed. "I live here." She was so sincere that I was hit with a wave of confusion, and when it ebbed, realization slapped me in the face. I took a step back and looked up at the door I had been kicking a moment ago, then I looked to the right at the door I should've been kicking.
“Shit.” I did it again. I went to the wrong fucking house.
Why did these brownstones all look the same?
I turned to head to the brownstone where my code would work, and I guess I turned too fast because I stumbled and had to grab the railing to keep from crashing to the ground.
"Are you okay?" She lowered her bat, but she didn't take a step forward. I was drunk. I tried to enter the wrong house, and almost busted my ass in front of my sexy neighbor.
“I’m fine, Crystal. Mind your business.” This ordeal was embarrassing enough without Batgirl, suddenly concerned for my welfare.
Hadn’t she just called me an asshole?
I didn't need her help. I was a grown-ass man who needed to walk twenty feet to his front door.
"Excuse me?" she said. "Again, dickhead, my name is not Crystal, and you screaming in the middle of the night woke me up from my much-needed sleep, so it is my business."
I turned to face her and felt myself sway as I tried to stabilize. Her outburst was sexy as fuck and I felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her.
Nope. Nope.
That was definitely the alcohol talking.
I can’t kiss her.
I have to get home.
The word home floated to my consciousness, but instead of focusing on that goal, I decided to speak.
"You kind of look like my mother, but not really. Her name is Crystal. I'm fine. Just got confused. My house looks exactly like my sister's house." I pointed at the brownstone next door before pointing at Kimmy's.
"Your sister?" She gave me the look, the skeptical look I get when people found out about my adopted family. One would think I'd gotten used to it after all these years. Maybe it was all the tequila shots, but tonight it pissed me off. She continued, "The woman that owns this brownstone is not your sister, and I'm not your mother, so you need to take your drunk ass home, to your actual house, before I call the cops."
"Kimbery Shimmins is my shishter!" I yelled as I backed away from her towards my house. I could hear myself slurring my words and considered the possibility that trying to walk and talk at the same time wasn't the best idea. I turned toward my house, continuing to amble forward. "And I'm glad you're not my mom because my mom is awesome, and you'd be a shitty mom with your baseball bat and your potty mouth."
Even though I was sure I just used the words "potty mouth," I knew I'd said something profound because I was met with silence.
I turned to look at her and found her expression blank. A loud and expletive-filled response was what I expected, but she just stood there, frozen and a little sad. A feeling like regret crept over me, but I couldn't figure out what I should have felt regretful about. I tried to replay the last thing I said, but I couldn't fucking remember, something about Kimberly and a shitty potty?
That look… I couldn't stand seeing it, so I turned away from her and climbed the steps to my door, where I typed in the four-digit code.
Green checkmark.
The throbbing in my head woke me up before I could open my eyes. I'd stayed out late drinking last night and stumbled into bed fully clothed. Again. I barely remembered anything after Beck Cameron's last round of shots. I must have taken a cab home, and I vaguely remembered meeting someone last night. A woman—a beautiful woman who was pissed at me for some reason. I climbed out of bed and trudged to the bathroom, swallowed two Advil, and turned on the shower.
The hot water beat me into consciousness, and memories of last night began to float together in tiny little patches. I had tried to get into Kimberly's house last night, thinking it was mine. We used to have the codes to each other's houses until I went to her home by accident one night, and her fiancé almost beat the shit out of me with a hammer before he realized who I was. Apparently, the nickname Thor had more significance than his resemblance to Chris Hemsworth. The thought ignited a flicker of a memory. The beautiful woman I met last night had a baseball bat. She was outside of Kimberly's house. I said something to upset her, but I couldn't remember what it was. I focused on putting myself together and getting to work.
After a stop at Starbucks, I stepped off of the elevator at seven forty-five. Technically the offices didn't open until eight thirty, and unless we were working on a big case, the senior associates and partners usually didn't show up until after nine. I was a first-year associate, which meant I always had to be here, working my ass off, but not busy, in case one of the partners needed something. My father was also a partner at this law firm before he became a judge, so I also had to prove that I wasn't just a rich kid using Daddy's connections. My dream had always been to work for Hollander and Cameron ever since my dad would bring me here as a kid. I wanted to be just like him. Whenever Crystal was in trouble, we would come to this building, and her lawyer, Reginald Simmons, would fix everything like a superhero. He was also a legend at the firm and was now a United States district court judge, so I'm sure my presence at the firm wasn't purely based on merit. That's why I was determined to work twice as hard as everyone else.
"Good Morning, Judy." I flashed the office manager a grin and handed her a venti mocha latte, 130 degrees.
“Thank you, Cole.” She snatched the cup from me and took a sip. “There is not enough coffee in the world. Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”
"Every day, but I never get tired of hearing it," I called over my shoulder. I sat at my desk, or a fancy version of a cubicle, and started working.
In the years I spent daydreaming about being an attorney, I thought it would be closer to Law and Order and not hours sorting through discovery requests, filing motions, and reading depositions for hours. It would be worth it if the work were fulfilling. I wanted to become a lawyer to help people like Crystal and me. Most of what we did at Hollander and Cameron involved helping rich people get richer.
Discovery requests in the movies usually depicted someone running into a conference room carrying a file that held the one piece of paper that was the key to winning the "big case." In reality, discovery requests could be four boxes of documents that need to be combed through carefully to find a specific piece of information that may or may not be there. This was a task for first-years. Most of my morning was spent sifting through three years of email conversations from a real estate company looking for any mention of steel beams.
“There he is,” Beck Cameron called behind me. He was the son of Bryce Cameron, one of the managing partners. He’d have a good shot at following in his father’s footsteps if he wasn’t such a fuckup. Beck’s voice was still raspy from last night. “How the fuck do you do it?”
I turned to face him. He was in the same suit he wore to work yesterday, a pair of sunglasses, and sipped something green out of a giant clear Starbucks cup.
“You look like shit.”
“I feel like shit.” He dropped into his chair.
“Are those the clothes you had on yesterday, man?” They smelled like last night too.
“Well, I didn’t exactly make it home yesterday.” He dropped his sunglasses and raised his eyebrows. “If you know what I mean…”
“You mean, you met someone at the bar last night and went to their house to have sex,” I deadpanned.
His expression soured. “Maybe if you tried it once in a while, you’d be in a better mood.”
“I’ll think about it.” I turned back to my computer.
I ignored Beck and tried to focus on work, but the only thing I could think about was my bat-wielding neighbor.
It was a quarter to nine when I finally stepped off of the subway to make the five-minute walk to my house. My parents lived in the brownstone on the corner. I saw that the front parlor light was on, and my stomach had the Pavlovian response it usually did whenever I got in proximity to my mom's kitchen. The growling also reminded me that I worked straight through lunch and skipped dinner.
Walking into my parents’ house was a crapshoot. Mom and Dad were always affectionate growing up, but since the three of us moved out… Well, it was always a good idea to announce yourself when you came in.
“Mom? Dad?” I yelled after taking off my shoes and walking into the empty sitting room.
“We’re in here, baby,” Mom called. It sounded like she was in the dining room.
The faint melody of Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On" played as I found my parents sitting on opposite sides of the table wearing their reading glasses and hunched over laptops, probably working on real estate stuff. Dad was a judge, and Mom was a psychiatrist, but together, they had invested in real estate around New York since the early nineties, and most of their money came from those properties. It was how their three kids were able to afford their own brownstones on the same street.
“Are you just getting home from work?” Mom asked as I kissed her on the cheek. I nodded and loosened my tie. “That’s ridiculous.” She wrapped one of her deep brown hands around my chin and tipped my head to the side as if she were inspecting me for damage. “Look at this luggage under your eyes. Are you getting enough sleep?”
"Beverly, leave that boy alone." Dad closed his laptop, removed his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting.
"They are working him too hard. Look at his face." She still gripped my chin and forced me to look at my dad.
“Please. My easiest day as a public defender was worse than my hardest day at HC, and I had lives depending on me. He’ll be fine.” Then he narrowed his dark eyes at me and muttered, “He’d be better if he stopped staying out late after work and took his butt home at a decent hour.”
It was time for me to make my exit.
“Where was all this sympathy when I worked all those late hours?” he asked.
"You are not my child, and if memory serves me correctly, and it always does, I took care of you plenty…" She released me and eyed my father suggestively.
“You still do,” he replied in a voice too deep for my comfort.
It was really time for me to make my exit.
I cleared my throat to remind them I was still in the room. Mom laughed and patted my face.
"Go in the kitchen and fix yourself a plate. Kimmy is in there, so you better hurry if you want some corn."
I swung the kitchen door open to find my sister scooping the last of the corn out of a large bowl and dividing it between two plates. She was a younger version of my mom with chestnut colored skin and long dark tightly coiled hair which she’d pulled up in a bun. She wore a sleeveless blouse and yellow pencil skirt so I guessed she came here straight from work too.
“Hey, Stringbean.” I took the bowl from her and managed to salvage some of the corn. The salty, buttery smell made my stomach growl again. “You opening a soup kitchen?”
"No," she said and tried to snatch the bowl back before I held it out of her reach. "Adam's working late, and I'm making him a plate."
Adam was Kimberly's fiancé. They'd only been together for a few months, but he was a good guy and made her happy.
“I thought he was moving to Barbados.” I clutched the bowl while I reached for a plate.
"He is, but he had some meetings in New York, and Vittoria can't fly anymore. So, we're both in the same place at the same time for a few days." Her face spread in a wistful grin and she started scooping baked mac and cheese onto the plates.
My sister was the executive assistant to the head of the real estate and hospitality division of Wolfe Industries, a Fortune 50 company. Usually, she was jet-setting around the world, but her boss was in the latter part of her pregnancy and couldn't fly, so she was home more often. Adam was an architect and was building a luxury resort in Barbados for Wolfe. He flew back and forth a lot and was preparing to move there for the foreseeable future. Long-distance relationships were supposed to be hard, but these two seemed to make it work. I wasn't a fan of long relationships, much less long-distance ones.
My sister and I managed to divide the leftover meatloaf and cornbread without coming to blows, though she took all four corner pieces. We were wrapping our plates in foil when I remembered last night's encounter.
“Hey, do you have a tenant?”
She froze. “Yeah,” she answered in a slow, cautious tone. “Why?” She turned to face me, eyeing me with suspicion.
“How long has she lived there?”
“She moved in about eight months ago. Again, why?”
"She's lived there for eight months, and I've never seen her?"
“No.” She shook her head and went back to covering her plates.
"No, what?" I asked, knowing exactly what she meant and tried to stifle a grin.
"Stay away from her. She's sweet. She minds her own business, and she always pays her rent on time."
“Excuse me? Your sweet tenant who minds her own business tried to attack me with a baseball bat last night.”
She whipped around to face me.
“What? That doesn’t sound like—” She almost said her name, then stopped herself. “Why did she try to attack you with a bat?”
“I might have accidentally tried to get into the wrong house last night.” I shrugged and reached for the cake dish.
“Again, Cole?” She glared at me and dug her fist into her hip.
“Yes, Kimberly,” I mimicked her. “You know all of the houses look the same at night.”
“And when you’re drunk?” She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.
"I am a social drinker. I work ten-hour, high-stress days, then I have a few drinks with some of the other associates after work. It's networking. It's an important part of my job."
She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, mimicking Mom’s you’re so full of shit face. “You really need to get your shit together, Cole.” She turned and started slicing into the yellow cake with chocolate frosting.
“You know what, Kimmy? You’re the last one who should be lecturing me about facing hard truths.”
"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" She turned to face me, but she held the knife.
"Put the knife down, and I'll tell you."
She looked down at her hand, snorted a laugh, and dropped the knife on the counter.
“Where are you taking those plates?”
Her smile dissolved, and she hesitated before answering me, not meeting my eye. "To Adam's apartment. So…"
“When’s the last time he stayed at your place?”
“We’re not in court, Cole. Could you get to the point?”
"He's still acting weird about the brownstone and the fact that you have more money than he does."
"You're ridiculous. It's none of your business, and Adam is just more comfortable at his place. I love his apartment, and I love him, and we're hardly in the same place long enough for it to become an issue. And now that that's settled, let me reiterate that I want you to leave my tenant alone. She's been through a lot, and she's not your type."
“What do you mean she’s been through a lot?”
“Again, none of your business.” She’d finished piling and packing her plates and slid them into one of the five hundred plastic shopping bags Mom kept in the cabinet under the sink.
“And what do you mean she’s not my type? What the hell is my type?”
“The type of woman who steals your sister’s jewelry when you invite her over for family dinner…”
“That happened once.”
“Or the type of woman that proclaims at a family barbecue that she didn’t know Black families could adopt white children.”
"That was a different chick, and in my defense, she seemed a lot smarter when I met her."
“Bye, Cole.” She walked to the kitchen door. “Leave my tenant alone and fix your life.”
"Love you too, sis!" I yelled at her retreating form.
She stopped, sighed, and turned to me.
"I'm sorry for all the shit I just said. You're amazing, Fruity Pebbles, but you have horrible taste in women, and your current life choices are questionable."
"You really suck at apologizing. You know that?" I cracked a smile, and she chuckled. "So, I'm amazing but still not good enough for your sweet, bat-wielding tenant?"
She heaved a sigh. "Look, I'm not at liberty to share her personal business, but I don't think it's a good idea."
“For her or for me?”
“For either one of you.”
Thank you for reading this bonus chapter of Everything’s Better with Lisa. For purchase information please visit geni.us/EBWL