Page 47 of The Tenant
“I’ll take them in now,” I say through my teeth.
“Oh great,” he mutters. “You take ‘em in a day late and only when I tell you to. How come you’re the only one on the block who can’t seem to get it right? Guess they didn’t teach you how to tell time at that fancy college you went to, huh?”
You know what? I have had enough of Mr. H. Zimmerly. I’ve been dealing with him practically every week since I moved here. And now? I’m done.
Done.
“You want me to get my trash cans off the curb?” I pick up one of the metal cans. “Well, here you go!”
With those words, I hurl the can at Mr. Zimmerly as hard as I can. He’s got to be close to ninety years old, and it probably would have killed him, but the can misses him by a mile and rolls onto the street beside him. His rheumy eyes widen.
“What the hell is wrong with you, you lunatic!” he shouts at me. “You could have killed me!”
I pick up the trash can where it rolled. “Maybe I should try again then?”
Zimmerly gets the message this time. He scurries back into the house, his slippers scuffing against the ground. He’s moving so quickly that he nearly stumbles on that broken step I offered to fix. At his age, a fall down those stairs would be bad news.
A few people heard the commotion and mill about uncomfortably. A bunch of damn busybodies in this neighborhood. Maybe it’d be better to get the hell out of here.
I wave to my nosy neighbors and stomp back inside the house. I wasn’t trying to hit Mr. Zimmerly with that garbage can—I missed on purpose. I didn’t want to hurt him. I haven’t completely lost my mind.
But I can’t say the same about what I would do if Whitney were in front of me.
28
I endup taking a long walk around the neighborhood.
Usually, I’m one of those New Yorkers who always have a destination in mind, my eyes carefully avoiding eye contact with passersby as I walk briskly to wherever I need to be. But today, I have no destination. I walk aimlessly as the sun drops in the sky and the drizzle turns into a rain shower.
And even then, I keep walking. I don’t have a jacket, although it’s decidedly chilly. My legs are aching from my run earlier, but I don’t give a shit.
The whole time, all I can think about is Krista, about how I screwed everything up, and I don’t know how I did it. I didn’t leave my phone in Whitney’s bedroom. That bleach in the closet wasn’t mine. I would never do that to Goldy and especially to Krista.
Whitney wanted Krista and me to break up. That was her goal from the beginning.
Except I’m worried that isn’t her only goal.
This is just the beginning.
I walk for about two hours. I get back home after eight o’clock, my shirt damp, my legs on fire, my hair plastered to my scalp. It’s good though. I want to feel something besides the sharp pain in my gut whenever I think of Krista.
There’s a light on upstairs, and for a moment, I feel a flash of hope. Did Krista come back? Did she have a change of heart?
But no. It’s Whitney’s sneakers by the front door. Whitney is the one upstairs.
As I stare up at the second floor of my house, my stomach lets out a low growl. I hadn’t realized until now how hungry I was. I had intended to take Krista out to dinner tonight, but that’s not going to happen. I may as well scavenge the refrigerator for food. At least all the fruit flies are gone.
I throw open the fridge, spotting the Chinese takeout container from last night. Krista and I had finished off the beef with broccoli, but we still have one container of lo mein left. I may as well eat it before it goes bad.
And there’s beer. Plenty of it.
I don’t bother to heat up the noodles—I prefer them cold, right out of the takeout container. I twist off the cap of the beer, drink about half of it in one swig, then bring the takeout container and the beer back to the living room.
If I’m not going out with Krista tonight, I may as well get drunk.
I flip on the television to a random reality show and settle back on the sofa with my lo mein noodles. I pry the container open, inhaling the scent of day-old Chinese food. I dig my fork into the noodles, spinning it twice. I shove a forkful into my mouth, hoping it will ease the ache in my belly. I start chewing and then…
Suddenly, I’m gagging. I’m practicallychoking.
