Page 17 of The Vacancy In Room 10

When I finally reach a Starbucks six miles from The Sycamores, I realize I really need to stop and buy a Keurig because I can’t do this every day. How do these people live so far away from good coffee? It’s incredible. I order two iced mochas, so I can put one in the freezer for tomorrow until I can find a department store. I mean, where is the nearest Macy’s even? It’s like I’ve been dropped on another planet at The Sycamores. Why did Henry want his studio here is the real question. It’s the question I keep coming back to the more time I spend at this place. If he really wanted space, he could have cleaned out the garage or drywalled the basement and made a studio. I just supported him having a studio—it was more affordable than converting the basement, he liked the way the light came in in the morning, he’d made some friends. I figured they were other artist friends. In my wildest dreams I wouldn’t have imagined this. What the hell was he really doing here?

When I park in my spot outside the apartment, I get out and toss my empty mocha in the dumpster and take the other coffee and a bag of cheese Danish with me, and then I see Eddie’s truck parked two spots down. I saw him washing and waxing it this morning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone actually wax a vehicle before that in real life. And I was keeping an eye out for Rosa—to see if she was okay. I saw her by the pool midmorning, thank god, spreading out a beach towel patterned with Elmo wearing a snorkel, and sitting her son down on it with a Ziploc of goldfish crackers. I felt a flood of relief at the sight of her even though I heard her say she was okay last night. That is not a woman who is okay in any way whatsoever.

I scan the parking lot to make sure nobody else is around. I glance to the pool to make sure nobody notices me, and then I dump the mocha in the bed of Eddie’s waxed truck. It’s immature—a stupid and minor act of retaliation in reaction to the massive weight of the terrible way he behaved, but it still felt good, and if I’m lucky, I’ll be on the balcony watching the moment he comes out and discovers it. Psychopath.

I take out a bag of Whole Foods groceries from my trunk and begin to walk to the apartment like nothing happened, when I’m startled by a man appearing on the walkway in front of me out of thin air.

“Oh, let me help you with that,” he says, taking my groceries from my arm before I have time to protest.

“Um, thank you, but... I don’t...”

“You’re in 203, right? I’m just a couple down from you in 206. It’s no trouble. I’m going up,” he says and begins walking, so I just follow since he doesn’t leave me a choice.

“And you are?”

“Oh!” He stops and turns around, offering out a hand to shake. “Barry. You’re Anna, and you live in Henry’s old place, I hear.” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, he just turns and continues walking up to my unit, chatting away about how the heatwave is upsetting his tomato plants and how I’ll just love it here when I get to know everyone and that they grill out by the pool most Friday nights—just dogs and burgers. Beer, of course, and that everyone brings something to share. When we arrive at my door, he’s out of breath.

“Well, thanks for the help,” I say, reaching to take my grocery bag, but he doesn’t offer it up, which is a little creepster.

“I can help you in,” he says, and I reach for my bag and take it.

“That’s okay, but thanks.” I open my door as he lingers.

“My pleasure, Anna from 203. I’m happy to help. Anytime. Whatever you need.”

And with that I nod as politely as I can muster and slip inside, closing the door behind me. I barely put down my groceries when there is a knock at the door. What the hell does this guy want from me? What did Henry see in this place, seriously? I’m more creeped out with each passing day here. I try to think of a polite way to tell him to get lost, but when I open the door, I see Callum holding an AC window unit, precariously balancing it on a bent knee.

“Whoa.” I swing the door open to let him in so he can set it down since he looks like he’ll drop it.

His face is red and veiny from the strain. He sets it on the table, takes out a cloth, and wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Hey,” he finally says.

“What are you doing, exactly?” I laugh.

He stands in front of the box fan, catching his breath. It’s strange to have a man in here—in Henry’s private space. “God, it’s like the surface of the sun in here,” he says.

“Yep,” I agree.

“I heard you needed your AC fixed, but I don’t know how to fix an AC, so I just popped this out of 115. Nobody’s lived there for months, so...if it gets rented, we can figure it out then. For now...” He pats the top of the AC unit.

“Oh, my God, I could kiss you!” I say, and then immediately want to take it back as his face grows even redder, if that’s possible. I quickly shift gears. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you,” I say, and he smiles, adjusts his ball cap and gets to work unscrewing things from the old unit in the window.

I pour some powdered iced tea mix into a plastic pitcher while he pokes and pounds at the ancient behemoth of an AC, and when I return, he’s yanked it from the window frame. He is struggling to carry it to the table when I see something odd.

On the windowsill is a key. I recognize the faded blue metal star attached to the key ring. It’s old. He had it for years until I gave him the duck-wearing-a-scarf key chain a few years ago as a gag gift, but he loved it. This faded star ring has been sitting in a glass bowl by the front door for ages, and now it’s here. Hidden out of sight. My heart speeds up, and I grab the key and turn it over in my hand. There is a small yellow tag attached that says “storage.” It’s in Henry’s blocky handwriting.

Why would he have hidden this? Why was it shoved under the AC unit like that? I slip it in my pocket.

After Callum finishes installing the new AC, his shirt is soaked through with sweat, and I feel bad he’s gone to so much effort for me—taken up his morning for me, but I’m grateful. He takes the cup of iced tea I offer him, and then he leans over and clicks the power on the new unit, and it rumbles to life. I clap, and he bows, and then we tap our cups together in celebratory cheers. He sits on a folding chair in front of it and takes in the cool air for a moment.

“Glorious,” I say, and he smiles at me. He’s a quiet guy, and I find I don’t really know what to say to him, either. The brief silence is broken when an ice-cream truck can be heard pulling into the parking lot piping out the organ rendition of London Bridge Is Falling Down, making the song sound somehow creepier than it already is. I stand next to him, and we look down at the pool deck and watch the kids hold out begging hands to the pool moms and run barefoot out the iron gate into the lot.

“Diabetes truck,” he says, and I almost spit my sip of iced tea on him.

“Pardon?” I ask.

“That’s what my parents called it.” He smiles. “I guess that was meant to be a deterrent.”

“You’re still bitter.” I smile back.

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