Page 12 of The Tenant
Whitney grins at me, clearly delighted at the prospect of moving into our tiny spare bedroom. “Hey, Blake. Thanks so much for helping me.”
“No problem,” I say, like it wasn’t all Krista’s idea. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Whitney leads me to the trunk of the car, which she pops open using the car keys. I peer inside at the two large boxes and one giant duffel bag.
“This is it?” I ask in astonishment.
“I’ve got another big bag of clothes in the back seat.”
I stare into the trunk, trying to make sense of the fact that everything this girl owns doesn’t even fill the back of a Pinto. When I moved, I got a wholetruck, and that was just for me. And Krista… I’m pretty sure she could fill that duffel bag with just her belts. (She’s really into belts.)
“I’m not that into clothing,” Whitney says, a touch defensively. “And I’ve been moving a lot, so I’ve had to pare down.”
Still.Still.Once again, those alarm bells are going off in my head, although they’re more like sirens at this point.
I can still turn her away. She hasn’t moved in yet. Of course, we have deposited her check and used it to pay bills. And Whitney has presumably given up her current living situation. It would be a dick move to turn her away at this point just because of a “bad feeling.” That’s something Quillizabeth would do.
“Well,” I say, “this will be quick then, won’t it?”
Whitney’s face relaxes into a smile as I reach into her trunk to pick up one of the boxes. It’s not even that heavy. Barely full. I could carry five of these boxes without breaking a sweat.
She attempts to grab the large duffel bag in the back seat of the car, straining with the weight of it.
“Hey,” I say, “just leave it. I can carry all the bags up for you.”
She grunts as she frees it from the back seat. “No, I got it.”
“But I can do it.”
“Are you calling me a weakling?” She flashes me a teasing smile. “I bet you five bucks I can carry more bags than you can.”
She adjusts the strap of the bag between the curves of her breasts, and I have to look away. Whitney is even sexier than I thought she was, and that is not a good thing.
Don’t even think about it, Blake.
“Hey, Porter!” a gruff voice calls out.
I rest the box on the edge of the trunk and turn around. My neighbor, Mr. Zimmerly, is hunched on the sidewalk in front of his own brownstone, wearing pajama pants and fuzzy slippers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man in actual shoes the whole time I’ve lived here. I’m not sure he owns a pair.
“Hi, Mr. Zimmerly,” I say as politely as I can.
I have tried to be nice to Mr. Zimmerly, but he hasn’t made it easy. I don’t even know what his first name is because he never told me. I know it starts with H because when his mail accidentally gets delivered to me (and I’m nice enough to bring it to his door), it always saysH. Zimmerlyon it, but that’s all I’ve managed to learn about him in the six months I’ve lived here. Also, he hates me, and I don’t know why.
“Porter,” he barks at me, even though I told himmyfirst name the first time we met. “Why is your trash bin out on the sidewalk again?”
Due to the rat infestation in the city, we are no longer allowed to put black plastic garbage bags on the curb and must instead put our garbage in bins: one for trash and one for recycling. During the week, I keep my bins locked up under the stairwell. (You wouldn’t think a bin reeking of refuse would be in danger of theft, but that’s New York for you.) Then on garbage day, I haul them to the curb for the garbagemen to empty.
Zimmerly’s biggest gripe about me is that I leave the trash bins out too long on pickup day. He wants me to watch for the garbage truck and grab the cans off the street the very millisecond after the trash is taken away. I have failed to do this repeatedly, and every time we see each other, he reminds me of that fact.
It’s not entirely his fault though. I don’t know how old Zimmerly is, but based on the deep wrinkles on his face and the tufts of white hair on his scalp, my best guess is eighty-something. He bought this place ages ago, when real estate in the city was still relatively cheap, and he expects everything to be done the way it was when he first moved in, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was just using it to save a parking spot. I’ll put it back now.”
He mumbles something under his breath and licks his lips, still not managing to clear away the glob of toothpaste encrusted there. He looks like he’s about to go back inside, but then he freezes when he notices Whitney standing next to me and the boxes in her trunk.
“What’s going on here?” he demands, as if I’m trying to prank him.
I force a smile. “This is Whitney. She’s going to be staying with us for a while.” But hopefully nottoolong.
