Page 85 of Heartfelt Pain
I push a button when we’re at the main entrance.
“Yeah?” comes Isolde’s static-filled voice. I know she’s not surprised because she has her place locked down. She’d have spotted us on the cameras.
“Trevino would just like your confirmation that there’s no one evil inside before you let me in.”
The door unlocks and I pull it open. The bodyguard ducks in behind me.
“You can wait in the car you know.”
“No elevator?” he asks as we head up the stairs.
“Nope.”
“What floor?”
“The top. Sixth.”
“You wanted me to wait in the car so I wouldn’t see you struggle.”
“Fuck you, Trevino.” And a double fuck him when he gets to the correct floor and isn’t a huffing and puffing mess. If he wasn’t here I’d put my hands on my knees and try to catch my breath.
Isolde waits in her doorway. “Hey.”
“H-hi.” Oh God, I’m going to die from lack of cardio.
“I got Pepsi,” she says.
“Thank the lord.” I hobble the rest of the way into her place.
Trevino stands tall right outside the door.
“You can come in?” Isolde offers it like a question.
“Close the door,” I tell her, already falling onto the couch.
Trevino must say something to a similar effect because she closes the door. There’s the satisfying click of the lock, though, we both know that won’t stop Trevino if he wants to get in.
“Tell me when you’re ready to talk,” Isolde says, passingthrough the living room. The fridge opens and when I crack open my eyes, there’s a can of Pepsi on the coffee table.
I love Isolde’s apartment.
It’s open and airy. When you step through the front door and into the living room the first thing you notice is the massive wall of windows on the opposite side.
Her couch is green and the velvet fabric is soft. There’s a large rug and a brown leather chair. The TV is on and a movie is playing.
To the left is a kitchen tucked partially behind a wall. On the other side of the living room, there are two bedrooms and a bathroom.
It’s small and the building is older but rent-controlled.
The place surprised me the first time I came over. Isolde wears the same outfit every day—a tracksuit, with her hair up. Here, everything is mismatched, yet somehow cohesive.
I don’t know what I pictured her place looking like, but I didn’t think it’d be this calm, gentle den of relaxation.
But there’s nothing as relaxing as Isolde’s place. Or maybe it’s just because she’s my best friend in the whole wide world.
“Did you hear?” I ask, my face smashed into a pillow.
Isolde is by the wall of windows, one propped open. She’s got a joint in her hand. “Lennie texted.”
