Page 20 of All Twerk, No Play

“I have to live vicariously through you,” Kate wiggled that ring finger again. “You know they worry about you, being so far from home.”

I sighed. I couldn’t be mad when she reminded me that their bordering-on-smothering communication was based in love. The four years I’d spent on the boat had been difficult for my mom, especially when I’d gone incommunicado for three-months patrols. Sometimes she called just to hear my voice.

As the Foo Fighters song wrapped up, the demanding guitar and insistent drums fueled my confession. “You know I can’t move back to Queens.”

“It’s not like they chased you out with pitchforks.”

“Pitchforks would have been preferred,” I said dryly. “Though it’s the only place that’s ever really been home.”

“I moved here after my parents’ divorce and met Mallory and Paul on my first day of school but it sometimes feels like …” She ran her hand lovingly along a wooden door frame. “Paul doesn’t understand my ‘obsession’ with New York.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never lived in New York.” When she didn’t reply, I asked, “How long until the wedding?”

“Eight months.” She kept her gaze focused on her brush’s movement around the window ledge. “He wants me to sell this place. He says renting and maintaining it is too much work.”

“What would you do with the money?” I asked.

“He would want to invest it, probably in a 529 for our unborn kids or some responsible shit."

“I didn’t ask what Paul would do. Let’s say you sell the house for … five million.” She snorted. “Humor me. You suddenly have five million, cash in hand. What would you do?”

“Go to Italy. Visit my mom in Rome, travel through Switzerland and Austria, then spend what’s left on a shoebox in Brooklyn. What would you do with five mil?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed, my stomach churning from the paint fumes.

When I was an idealistic teenager, I dreamed of traveling the world as a rockstar. I'd learned my geography from Pearl Jam concert bootlegs, imagining myself playing to adoring fans on stages in every country …

But then reality hit: I was no Eddie Vedder, just a poor half-Dominican kid. Aside from moving to Seattle for the Navy—most of that time underwater—I’ve barely left the state. How am I supposed to know where to go when I haven’t been anywhere? Even if I wanted to see the world … where would I start?

My work phone notifications blew up. I scanned through angry texts from tenants about the elevators—apparently one was broken and the other one was being hogged by the new tenant who expected her movers to get first priority.

Seeing the frustration on my face, Kate skimmed the texts over my shoulder, took the roller from my hands, and said, “And so it begins.”

"Feeling Good," Nina Simone

Victoria

“Whitegloveservicedoesn’tinclude assembly?”

“We’re the delivery team, ma’am,” the furniture person explained. “Originally we were scheduled to arrive back to back, but when the delivery got delayed, the assembly team got reassigned. They won’t be here …” He looked at his tablet and muttered under his breath.

“Did you just say two weeks?” I screeched. He stepped back, half tripping over the boxes that his movers wouldn’t be unpacking. I tapped my fingertips against my elbow, mentally composing my angry call to management.

I assumed the knock was one of the incompetent movers, returning to fuck something else up. I tightened my cashmere cardigan around my waist and swung the door open.

Eric stood in the hallway, wearing a tool belt over khakis and a blue polo shirt with the building’s logo over his chest. Seeing his uniform was a harsh reminder to keep a professional distance. I forced my eyes to remain on his face instead of tracking down his body, not wanting to recall last night—how his firm chest felt under my palms, how his fingers squeezed my ass, how his erection strained between us as his perfect teeth scraped my lip. Nope, not thinking about any of that.

He lingered on the threshold, running a fingernail along his collar to reveal a smattering of chest hair. “Heard there were some elevator issues with your movers.”

“Wouldn’t have been a problem if building maintenance fixed the broken one,” I said with my hands on my hips.

“I’m not allowed to touch them for insurance reasons, but I’ve already called the elevator company,” he said defensively.

I started to close the door, but his steel-toed boot slid over. “What was all that yelling about?”

Gripping the door handle, I glanced at the crew, removing the plastic wrap on the sofa but not unpacking the matching coffee table. “After an unacceptable delivery delay, assembly has an additional two-week delay.”

Eric gently pushed the door wider, looking over my shoulder at the mountain of boxes. “I could do that.”

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