Page 19 of The Tenant
“You got it,” she says. “It’s the least I can do after you fixed that drawer for me.”
One of the drawers in Whitney’s dresser had come off the rail and was on the brink of collapse. Expensive piece of crap. I spent about an hour in her room, reassembling the pieces of the drawer until it slid in and out smoothly. It’s the kind of thing I did with my dad a dozen times. Whitney made a big thing out of what a great job I did, and I have to admit it was fun working on it, but part of me was also embarrassed that my greatest achievement in the last three months was fixing a dresser.
“So,” I say, attempting to change the subject, “what are we watching?”
Whitney tucks her legs close to her chest. “Well, it’s a show where people bake cakes that are supposed to look like things that aren’t cake, and you have to figure out if it’s cake or not.”
“Like what?”
“Like, you see that guitar on the table?”
“Uh-huh…”
“That’s cake.”
“No way!”
“Way,” she says with all the gravity of a detective reporting on a recent homicide.
I smile despite myself. “And this is the sort of thing that helps you sleep?”
Whitney stares at the TV screen; the images are reflected on her pupils. “Actually, I canneversleep. May as well be entertained.”
In the dim light coming from the monitor, I can just barely make out the purple circles under Whitney’s eyes. “Do you take anything?”
“I’ve tried. Nothing helps.”
“I’m sorry.”
Whitney lifts a shoulder as if it’s no big deal. “It’s okay—as long as it doesn’t bother you that I’m down here in the middle of the night.”
“No way. I’m glad for some company.”
That elicits a grin. “So what is keepingyouawake tonight, Blake?”
Whitney reaches for another cookie from the plate on the coffee table. She isdefinitelynot wearing a bra.
I squirm on the sofa. “I don’t know. I guess I’m nervous about the future.”
She arches an eyebrow. “You mean like getting married?”
“No, I’m not nervous about that at all,” I say honestly. “But I’m starting this new job Monday, and…it’s hard to start over.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Whitney says in a way that makes me feel like she absolutely does.
“Anyway.” I let out a sigh. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“You’re worried,” she acknowledges.
“No, I’m notworried. Just, you know…”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” she says, “you seem like the kind of guy who always lands on his feet, no matter what.”
Weirdly, her vote of confidence buoys my spirits. “Yeah?”
“Definitely.” She starts ticking off on her fingers. “You’re obviously intelligent, charismatic, motivated, handsome…”
Hopefully she’s just being polite, because Krista wouldn’t appreciate me being alone in the living room in the middle of the night with a scantily clad girl who is now calling me handsome. But she’s looking at me in a way that makes me think she isn’t just being gracious. Her intense eyes are locked on mine, and I have to grab a throw pillow to place strategically on my lap since all I’m wearing is an undershirt and a pair of boxers.
