Page 80 of Pity Parade

That wasn’t the greeting I had expected. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Go chase yourself.”

I look at Nick to see if he’s surprised by her reaction, but he won’t even make eye contact with me. What in the world is going on here?

Before I can find out, Trina lets herself into her cottage. Nick follows her, and she slams the door—loudly. She’s probably mad that I fell off the face of the earth. I should have called her to let her know why I left town.

Back inside my own cottage, I pop open a can of Fresca before retreating to the deck. I hope Trina and Nick go outside too so I can hear what they’re talking about. I want to find out if they’re dating. I felt so strongly that Trina and I had made a connection before I left, I didn’t think she’d keep looking for someone else.

I sit down on the only chair that can’t be seen from Trina’s patio. I don’t want her to know I’m there. Within moments, her back door slides open before she tells Nick, “It’s a beautiful afternoon to be outside.”

“As far as I’m concerned, every day is a beautiful day to be outside. My love of the outdoors is one of the reasons I love playing tennis so much.”

“Have you worked at the club for long?” she asks him. This question makes me think this might be their first date.

“Ten years.”

“What do you do in the off season?”

“I work at the tennis club in Madison,” he tells her before saying, “But I live here.”

“I’ve never been much of a tennis player.” No, because she bowls. Are you going to tell him you’re a champion bowler, Trina?

“We should play sometime.” Is it me or does his tone indicate he’s talking about something other than tennis. While I might have once insinuated the same thing, I’m currently a changed man.

“I’d like that,” Trina practically purrs.

I get up and walk to the sliding door. I open it and shut it three times in a row as loudly as I can. This maneuver is meant to alert them they’re not alone and should curtail any romantic impulses.

Instead of accomplishing that task, Trina only talks louder. “We should go for a walk on the beach,” she practically yells. “I think the lake is SO romantic, don’t you?”

Instead of answering her, Nick asks, “Are you having trouble with your hearing? You’re shouting.”

“Really?!” Trina says a couple of decibels lower. “I think it’s my allergies. Sometimes my ears get blocked.”

“I’m allergic to sodium nitrates,” Nick tells her. “So, no lunch meat for me.”

Trina ignores the allergy comment and asks, “How about that walk?”

I watch from my deck as the duo ventures out onto our shared dock. Trina’s body language is tense, and I can tell she’s itching to turn around and see if I’m looking. I cannot for the life of me figure out why she’s so mad at me, but I know one thing for sure, I’m not going to confront her while she’s with another man.

Instead, I go inside to go through my mail. While not the activity I was hoping for, at least it’ll get one chore out of my way.

When I walk into the kitchen to retrieve the bag, I see the roses I bought for Trina. Opening the cupboards, I find a clear glass vase that I fill with water and the remnants of my can of Sprite. Jess always put clear soda in her flower water. She claimed the sugar kept the flowers alive longer.

Once the arrangement is ready, I take a business card out of my wallet and write on the back of it:

For my beautiful neighbor. I don’t know why you’re mad at me. Can we talk?

After opening the front door, I leave it on Trina’s stoop. She won’t see the flowers until Nick leaves, but there’s no way she’ll miss them then. Plus, it will show him there’s someone other than him in the picture.

Back inside my place, I trade soda for a beer and get busy going through my junk mail. Several pieces are from realtors with listings in my building. One of them has a buyer interested in the unit ten floors down from me, but their client really wants something higher up. She wants to know if I’d like to sell. Normally, I’d throw her card away, but who knows, maybe I’m ready to leave Chicago.

There are more takeout menus in my mail than I realized there were restaurants that delivered. Two gyms are opening in my neighborhood and they’re offering a one-week free trial membership. I toss them all.

I’m about to throw away the rest of the bag without even going through it when I spot an interesting return address label. It’s from someplace called Lovestruck Entertainment. Taking the envelope out of the bag, I turn it over and rip it open. I pull out a sheet of paper, expecting to find some kind of form letter, so I’m surprised when I read the following:

Dear Mr. Fox,

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