Page 37 of Perfect Praise

“We’re touching,” I say.

He holds me tighter against him to make a point. “You’re not living here.”

“I don’t have many options.”

“Here isn’t an option,” he says, grabbing my arm and leading me back out through the inch-long ‘hallway’ to the kitchen. “Henry, there’s black mold in the bedroom.”

Henry startles, his face going pale, because Locke’s voice is what I’d describe as nastily angry.

Locke doesn’t give him a chance to respond. “You need to have that cleaned before someone moves in here.” He opens the door and practically shoves me out. “Don’t think I won’t call the city to report it and inspect it. And I’ll absolutely be checking up on you to make sure it gets done, Henry.” His tone isn’t lined with a threat—it’s all threat.

When he steps outside and slams the front door in Henry’s face, my mouth gapes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he scowls. “You were not going to breathe that air for another second.”

“You didn’t have to be mean,” I say, following him down the stairs. “I definitely can’t live here anymore, or Henry will treat me horribly.”

“Too mean to the landlord putting people at risk? Good. And yes, I did. Otherwise, he won’t fix the problem.” Locke opens the passenger side door for me in a weird show of chivalry. “Next,” he says, slamming the door.

Next isn’t any better. Locke won’t even let me see the actual apartment after I get out of the car and a group of twenty-somethings loitering in the hallway harasses me.

The one after that he drives by and doesn’t stop since he doesn’t like the neighborhood.

“Locke,” I say, exasperated. “I’m running out of options.”

“Where did you live before you moved into your sister’s?”

I stare at him.

“Before that,” he adds.

“I checked,” I sigh. “I can’t afford it anymore. My landlord raised my rent as soon as I moved out and that was years ago. It was even more than I imagined it would be.”

“What’d you do with the money from your little show?”

“It’s notmyshow,” I say, even more exasperated, “and I paid off my student loans on top of a little present for myself in the form of a camera. Now I need to fix my car, which will probably break again, so I’ll have to buy a new one, and the last time I checked I didn’t get a check bigger than my wingspan a few weeks ago. I live on a photographer’s salary, sotheseare my options, Locke. I’d appreciate it if you’d stop judging me and help me by not ruining every place we look at.”

“I’m not judging you,” he says softly, “but I also can’t live with myself knowing you’re sleeping underneath black mold or getting hit on every time you step out your door.” He looks around skepticallywhen we pull into the parking lot of my last option. He gives me a pained look. “I’ll try.”

Locke keeps his word and does try. This one isn’t as horrible as the others. There does seem to be a lot of people coming and going when we get out of the car, but the apartment is fairly clean.

There are some projects I can attempt to make it better, and the kitchen actually has shiny new appliances.

He sticks his nose in every door, inspecting every inch of the place, checking under the sinks for leaks, and testing every hinge on the doors.

“It’s not so bad, right?” I whisper when he steps back into the living room. I motion to the sliding glass door where a potted plant with nearly dead pink flowers inside is hanging from the edge of the roof. “It has a balcony.”

“It’s loud,” he says, pointing to the wall where we can hear the neighbor’s television and shouting and maybe something else we shouldn’t be listening to. “But it doesn’t smell. If you’re okay with it, I’m okay with it.”

I smile and clap my hands. “Okay, a win.”

“Okay, let’s go sign the paperwork,” Locke says with a grimace in his smile that doesn’t look convincing.

He trails behind me when I walk out the door and run into a woman who just emerged from my next-door neighbor’s door.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, stepping back into Locke’s chest. His arm snakes around me, holding me to his chest tightly, back in protective mode over this tiny woman whose arms are so scrawny she wouldn’t be able to punch a piece of paper.

She sways, eyelids heavy, and waves me off nicely but in a tired and slow way of doing it. I’d peg her as early fifties, but the long years she’s lived have etched themselves into her face. Her dirty blonde hair is gathered in a low, messy ponytail, and her dark brown eyes do look kind, but with a far-away look, like she’s out of it.

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