Page 37 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

“And you’re not pranking one another. I am. For you. Relax. He won’t suspect you at all. It will just be a moment of delight for you after all the adjusting you’ve had to do since he came back—and after humiliating yourself by getting stuck in a closet … and a box.”

“I thought you said I didn’t humiliate myself.”

“Right. Exactly. Soo … anyway.”

My neighbor’s parrot squawks, “Fish! Something’s fishy! Fishy!”

“What are you squawking about?” I shout toward the wall I share with that apartment.

“I think it’s here!” Megan squeals with childlike glee.

“What’s here?”

“The surprise. Come on!” Megan jumps up and runs to my door. She waits for me to walk over and then she cracks the door open. We peek out like racoons in a trench coat, Megan ducking low so I can see over the top of her head.

I look across the open lounge area toward Logan’s side of the second floor. There doesn’t seem to be a thing going on over there.

The distinctive smell of seafood wafts toward my apartment.

I turn my head just as the parrot squawks, “Fish! We’ve got fish! Fiiiiishy!”

A pile of styrofoam platters wrapped in clear plastic are stacked haphazardly in front of my nest-door neighbor’s door—not Logan’s. I’m thinking there could be fifteen or twenty butcher-style packages of fish in the hall.

“The delivery service … messed up … obviously,” Megan whispers.

My neighbor, the parrot owner, pokes his head out his door. Then he opens it fully and steps out to survey the pile of fish on his threshold.

“This,” Megan whispers, “is not good.”

I bite the bullet and swing my door open wide just as Logan steps around the corner. Our eyes lock from across the lounge.

Megan backs up, sending me momentarily stumbling. I catch myself before I go down.

“What’s going on?” Logan asks.

He’s walking toward me with a curious expression, but his eyes say everything. He knows something’s up. One thing about being rivals for this long: we read one another like familiar, favorite books. Only he’s definitely not my favorite. And I’m not his.

“Nothing!” Megan shouts too loudly. She lowers her voice. “Nothing going on here. We’re as curious as you are.”

“Frank,” Logan says as he rounds the corner to pass my apartment. “How’s it going?”

“Hi, Logan,” my neighbor answers. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on here.” Frank waves his hands at the pile of seafood.

My neighbor is probably in his late forties, early fifties. He’s greying at the temples. The rest of his hair is mostly dark brown with a little salt and pepper starting to show through. He’s plump, and he’s wearing pajamas and a bathrobe with slippers.

“Are those … fish?” Logan asks Frank, but he’s looking straight at me.

I cross my arms over my chest and turn so I’m looking at Frank.

“Yeah. Fish,” Frank says, obviously mystified as to how or why they showed up on his doorstep. “I’d say I got someone’s grocery delivery, but … all these fish? And no bags?”

“It’s certainly … fishy.” Logan smiles in my direction.

“Do you want us to help you get rid of them?” I offer. “I’m Olivia, by the way. Your new next-door neighbor. This is my friend Megan.”

“Nice to meet you,” Frank says. “Sorry about this. I wouldn’t have even known to check the hallway if Davy Jones hadn’t started yelling about fish.”

“Davy Jones?” Megan asks.

---