Page 50 of Going All In

The tournament is a bust for me. Blake picks up a nice win, and Cam ends up making some money on blackjack, some of which is going to go towards the speeding ticket he picked up on the way back to town.

Serves him right. Ididtell him to slow down.

Cam drops me off in front of my building. I check my emails while the elevator climbs to my floor, deleting spam message after spam message.

This is how they get you. You get on a mailing list, and then it’s just easier to delete the messages than to actually unsubscribe. So they keep coming, and you keep deleting, and then eventually you give up and make a new email address. I’m almost at that point.

The elevator doors slide open. As I’m unlocking my door, Hilda steps out of her apartment.

Hilda Johansson has lived in this building for something like twenty years. I’m sure there was a time when she let people live their lives without meddling. Probably. That time is long gone, though.

She lives for gossiping and involving herself in other tenants’ lives, and once you engage with her, she’s like one of those insects that burrows under your skin and stays there like an irritating little parasite, something I wish someone had told me about five years ago, before I made the mistake of getting into a conversation with her once. Now she doesn’t leave me alone.

“Hello, there. Back from a romantic getaway?” Her beady eyes scan me for anything she can use to gossip.

“No, Mrs. Johansson. Just a trip for work.”

“Hmph.” Her lips turn down. “I know a number of nice young girls. I could set you up with one of them.”

Of course she could. She’s been offering since I moved in here five years ago. I’d bet anything these girls she speaks of aren’t interested in being set up, either.

“No thank you, Mrs. Johansson. I’m perfectly happy with my life as it is.” I push the key into the lock, hoping she’ll take the hint.

She never does, though, and this time is no exception. “A man needs a woman around the house. Who does your cooking and cleaning?”

Dear Lord in heaven, I just want a beer right now. I don’t want to discuss my cleaning routine, my relationship status, or really anything else.

I force a polite smile. “I know how to clean, but thank you. If things change, I’ll be sure to ask you for recommendations for a nice girl to take out, okay?” I turn the key and push my door open, stepping inside and starting to close the door to indicate the end of the conversation. “It was nice talking with you.”

She mutters something I don’t quite catch as the door swings shut. I lean my back up against it. It’s been an exhausting few days. The poker tournaments can take a long time, but when you’re winning, it’s invigorating.

On a losing streak, it’s just draining.

* * *

I wasn’t kidding when I told my neighbor I was perfectly capable of cooking and cleaning. The cooking I’m just adequate at, not having absorbed my mother’s cooking skills the way Josie did. But I excel at cleaning. It’s soothing, in a way. Meditative.

I’m feeling more calm now that I’ve scoured the kitchen counters and cleaned the sink. Everything smells like lemons and tidiness.

I remove a load of laundry from the dryer and settle on the couch with it. Then I pull a shirt off the top of the pile and fold it methodically while I watch the news, more for background noise than anything else. Even my jeans have a specific way that I like to fold them.

What can I say? I like control, and I like things to look nice in the drawers. Plenty of people do. There’s a reason Marie Kondo is so popular.

I fold together a pair of socks and set them next to the growing pile of t-shirts folded into perfect rectangles, splitting my focus between the laundry and a documentary about pandas. Those big oafs are fucking adorable.

I pull another t-shirt from the laundry basket and shake out any wrinkles. I’m laying it on the table in front of me to fold it when there’s a knock at the door.

This better be good to pull me away from the pandas. I hit pause and tiptoe to the door.

I peer through the peephole to find Holly standing there, her eyes red even in this limited view. Is she crying?

I pull the door open. Sheiscrying, her eyes red-rimmed and her cheeks stained with tears, and the sight hits me like a gut punch. I want to kiss all her tears away and make everything better.

“Maddox?” she sniffles before I have a chance to speak. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, babe. What’s wrong?” I hold my arms open, and she falls into them.

Her body shakes with sobs. I embrace her while we stand in the entryway, brushing her forehead with my lips. My heart hurts for whatever happened to her, but I don’t miss the fact that I’m the one she came to. I’m the one she sought out for comfort.

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