Page 440 of The Winslow Brothers

Me: You have to give them credit for trying over and over again. That’s determination.

Lexi: Or botanicide.

Me: Botanicide? Is that a real word?

Lexi: It would be if more people killed plants at the rate of my parents.

I snort and shake my head just as I’m nearing the door to my building. My doorman, Nathan, rushes to beat me there from his spot at the curb, assisting a fancy-looking woman as she climbs inside a black Escalade, but I’m five steps ahead of him.

“Sorry, Mr. Winslow,” he remarks, making me purse my lips and shake my head.

“Don’t be, Nate,” I call over my shoulder. “I can open doors myself. Been training my whole life for it.”

Once I step inside the fresh air conditioning of my building, I sigh in relief. It’s another hot one today, and according to the meteorologist, it’s only set to get hotter in the next couple of hours.

Lukas, my building’s front desk manager, looks up and waves from his phone call as I pass him by, and I offer him a smile as I close the distance to the elevator. While glancing down at my phone and typing out a text to Lexi, I push the gold call button for the next available cart.

Me: Just let them revel in their blind, plant-growing ignorance, Lex. I mean, it’s too late for these plants, but in the future, I’ll try to help you stop your mom and Wes from committing any more botanicide.

Lexi: Fine. But maybe I’ll pull up some plant facts from the web and read them off in their vicinity. Consider it a last-ditch effort.

Me: HAHA. Sounds like a plan.

Lexi: Why are you laughing? I’m not joking.

I bite my lip and chuckle to myself. Lexi is on the autism spectrum and sometimes doesn’t interpret humor in the same way I do. She’s also a million times smarter than me, however, so in all honesty, I usually just default to her opinion.

Me: Oh sorry, Lex. Of course. You can tell me some of the facts the next time I see you.

The left-hand elevator dings, and I step inside, the doors sliding closed in front of me.

Lexi: Are you considering a garden?

Me: No. Not exactly.

Wes and Winnie’s brownstone has a backyard. My apartment is located inside a high-rise with only Central Park as the closest source of nature. Pretty sure I’d get arrested if I started digging up the grounds.

Lexi: Then why do you want to know facts about plants?

I chuckle again, shaking my head and poise my phone at my fingertips to type another response, but the elevator cart rocking to a hard stop forces my attention. Mere seconds later, the power goes out completely, and the emergency lights inside the cart illuminate.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

I furrow my brow and hope this is only a momentary pause in power, but when nothing changes, it’s pretty fucking obvious that I’m trapped in an elevator…again.

But this time, there’s no gorgeous woman by the name of Maria to keep you company.

My mind could dive deep with thoughts of herorthe reality that a month has passed without her following through on using my number, but clearly, I have something that’s a little higher priority to deal with at the moment. Like getting the hell out of another elevator.

Get your shit together, New York power grid.

Even with the reliable staff of my building who are probably already on the case, there’s no way I’m going to wait around to be rescued. After watching the firefighters work a couple weeks ago, I’m pretty sure I can get out of this fucker myself if I try hard enough.

I move to the doors swiftly, tucking my phone inside my pocket and studying the seam between them. They look spring-loaded, but there’s enough of a gap that I think I can get just enough traction inside the seam to budge the entrance open.

I scrape my fingers into the notch between the doors and push as hard as I can until they start to give way and sluggishly slide open. It hurts like a motherfucker—my fingers, no doubt, will be bruised and bleeding—but once I manage five inches of space between the doors, they start to move easier.

Thank fuck.

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