Page 11 of The Tenant
7
Whitney Cross is movinginto the brownstone today.
I paid to run the background check myself, and it didn’t reveal anything concerning. No arrests, no warrants, no sex offenses—no red flags at all. Whitney is a law-abiding citizen from a small town in Jersey and has a decent credit score. And her boss at the diner assured us she’s a model employee.
So we asked her to move in.
She’s borrowed a friend’s car, and she’s driving over here with all her belongings. Because I am unemployed and also the one who carries the heavy items in our relationship, Krista volunteered me to help her move in. Which is fine. May as well make myself useful tosomeone.
I started scoping out parking spots an hour before Whitney was supposed to arrive. Parking is hard to come by on our street (or anywhere in Manhattan), which is why I don’t own a car. I tried to keep my car the first year I moved here, but I spent half my commute to work stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, so when a taxi rear-ended me and my car was declared totaled, I decided to stick with the subway from then on. No regrets.
Twenty minutes before Whitney’s arrival, a spot opens up right in front of the house, so I grab one of our garbage bins and plant it there to save it. I then have to physically guard it, because a car will almost certainly mow down the bin if I’m not here to keep it from happening. Good thing I don’t have a job.
While I’m waiting for Whitney on the steps of the brownstone, a girl I’ve seen a bunch of times on my running trail through Central Park passes by wearing a pair of pink shorts that barely conceal her underwear. She winks at me, and I smile back as blandly as I can. A few years ago, I would have been all over a girl like that, but not anymore. It’s okay to take a subtle look butnevertouch, and even looking is something I’m trying my best not to do anymore.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, and the word “Dad” flashes on the screen. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but when I try to remember the last time I talked to my father, I can’t. He’s been lonely in the last few years since my mother succumbed to breast cancer, and I feel guilty that I’ve been avoiding him. But we don’t have much in common, so most of our conversations are just awkward.
I check my watch. Whitney will be here any minute, so that will be an excuse to get off the phone. I take the call.
“Blake!” Dad says, and then he starts coughing, which makes me feel even more guilty. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” I lie. “How about you?”
“Oh, I’m great.” But then he coughs again. The last time we talked, he said he was getting over a cold, and it seems like he still is. “How is the job search going? Find anything yet?”
“Still working on it.”
“Because I was just thinking,” he says, clearing his throat, “that with Jeff quitting last month, I could really use some extra help at the store. And if you ever want to take over…”
“Dad…”
“The timing is perfect,” he says with growing excitement. “I need the help, and you need a job. And, Blake, the store is your legacy. My father passed it down to me, and now you should have it.”
Just what I want as my inheritance—a struggling hardware store in Cleveland.
As if reading my mind, my father adds, “A new housing complex just went up a couple of blocks away. Business has been good.”
“Dad…”
“You could sell that expensive tiny brown house of yours,” he goes on in a rush. “Move back here, and you can get a house five times the size for a fifth of the price. I bet Krista would be really happy here. And if you take the store—”
“Dad, I didn’t get a degree to work at a hardware store!” I burst out.
My father goes instantly silent on the other line, and now I feel like a huge jackass. He’s just trying to help, and God knows he won’t be around forever—I found that out the hard way when my mom died. He wants his only son to take over his business. It’s not a terrible thing to wish for, even though it’s the last thing I want.
“I’m sorry, Blake,” my father says meekly. “I just thought…”
Before he can finish his sentence, a rusty red Ford Pinto pulls up to the curb with Whitney behind the wheel. I rise to my feet, brushing off the seat of my pants because I don’t want to think about the crap that’s on the steps. “Dad, I have to go.”
“Okay,” he says. “I love you, son.”
“Love you too, Dad,” I say just before hitting the red button to end the call.
I have to move the garbage bin to the side so Whitney can fully pull into the spot. Once she’s parked, she climbs out of the car, her light brown hair pulled back into a high ponytail that swings behind her head. She’s wearing another pair of blue jeans with a skimpy tank top that’s appropriate given the heat.
Yes, Ilooked. So sue me. I’m only human.
“Hey,” I say.
