Page 61 of The Tenant
Becky and Malcolm’sbuilding is within walking distance, so after I get out of the shower, I put on my sneakers and hoof it.
I reach the apartment building about five minutes before the agreed-upon time. I wait outside, pacing on the sidewalk, and people start giving me funny looks. I take out my phone and use the camera to make sure I look okay, and the truth is I seem a bit disheveled. Even though I recently showered, my hair is wet and windblown from the walk over here, and I also realize that my shirt is inside out.
I take off my shirt, which involves some maneuvering because I’m wearing a jacket on top of it. I manage to flip it, and then I throw it back on over my head. As I’m putting the jacket back on, I realize a woman with white-blond hair is standing a few feet away, staring at me.
“Blake?” she blurts out.
Out of context and with her hair looking different from the last time I saw her—shorter? longer?—it takes me a few seconds to recognize my former girlfriend. “Gwen?”
“Itisyou.” Gwen seems astonished, even though I think I look roughly the same as two years ago. “What are youdoing?”
“My shirt was…” I gesture helplessly at my T-shirt. “Anyway…uh…how are you, you know, doing?”
She sticks out her chest, and it’s hard not to notice that her shirt is definitely not inside out. And she doesn’t smell like cigarettes anymore. I wonder if she quit.
“Great, actually,” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice that surprises me. “I got a promotion at work, and also, I got engaged last week.”
Then she sticks her giant diamond right in my face.
I don’t know why she’s rubbing my nose in her success, becauseshewas the one who broke up withmefor practically no reason. Well, more like she started a stupid argument that ended with us breaking up. I don’t know if she thought I was at fault for the breakup, but by the way she’s looking at me, I can tell that she doesn’t have warm, fuzzy feelings for me.
“I’m really happy for you, Gwen.” I mean it—more or less. I’m not going to start listing my own accomplishments, the highlights of which include getting fired from my job and dumped by my fiancée. “You look like you’re doing great.”
Her gaze rakes over me. “And you look…”
She doesn’t complete the sentence. Just as well.
I glance at my watch—time to go upstairs. “Anyway, it’s been good seeing you, but I have to run.”
She gives me a strange look that I don’t try too hard to interpret. “Yes, so do I. I’ll…um…see you around, Blake.”
I’m willing to bet a thousand bucks I don’t have that I will never see her again.
The encounter with my ex-girlfriend has not put me in a good mindset to see Krista. I was anxious before, and now I feel much worse. What if two years from now, I run into Krista on the street and barely recognize her? The thought of it makes my chest tight.
I’d forgotten Becky and Malcolm’s building has a doorman, so my attempts to muscle my way upstairs probably would not have worked. For that reason, I’m grateful that when I say my name, the doorman waves me right in. The whole elevator ride to the twelfth floor, I’m tapping my right foot and resisting the urge to start pacing again.
When I get close to the apartment door, the smell of cinnamon hits me. I have clearly stressed Krista out, because she is making her snickerdoodle cookies. The aroma hits me with a wave of nostalgia—I miss her so much. I’m more determined than ever to win her back. I square my shoulders and knock purposefully on the door.
I fully expect Becky to be serving as the gatekeeper, so it’s a little surprising to see Krista standing at the door. Her strawberry-blond hair is pulled back into her patented messy bun, her lips are cotton candy pink, and she looks a little tired and disheveled too, if I’m being honest. But that only makes her more beautiful.
It’s been barely over a week since I’ve seen her, and it feels like a year. All I want is to reach out and give her a level ten hug.
“Krista,” I choke out.
I’m not imagining it when her own eyes fill with tears. “Hey, Blake.”
The diamond ring is in my coat pocket. I’m ready to give it back to her.
“Can I come in?” I ask.
She sucks in a breath. “Okay, but just for a minute.”
When I enter the apartment, the smell of cinnamon grows stronger. I follow Krista into the kitchen, and she pulls out an oven mitt, then pulls a tray of freshly baked cookies from the oven. She places them next to another tray that is already cooling. She made alotof cookies. She’s clearly miserable.
“They smell great,” I say. “As always.”
She manages a tiny smile but doesn’t offer me one. “Thank you.”
