Page 15 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
But despite this uninviting prospect, I know, deep down, thatCarmen’s right. I’m no use to anyone being all the way across the country. The problem is, Kat won’t be thrilled about me requesting to take PTO on short notice—so I’ll have to work from Florida. Which Kat also wouldn’t be thrilled about. So hopefully she won’t find out.
“Well, crap,” I say. “I guess I’m going to Florida.”
Chapter 8
Two days later, I’m rolling my carry-on suitcase down the hall when I stop in front of my blue-haired neighbor’s door. I listen for a moment and hear them bustling around in the kitchen, probably making breakfast. I hesitate, gather all my courage, and knock.
They answer the door without a word, their face scrunched in confusion.
“Hi.” I give a wave that’s too big, considering that we’re standing a foot apart. “I live next door.”
“Yeah.” Their mouth twitches in amusement. “The reluctant landlord.”
“Uh… Right. Anyway, I’m going to be out of town for a couple days, and I was wondering, if you see any packages by my door, could you grab them? And I’ll get them from you when I’m back.”
“Sure. How many are you expecting?”
“I… I’m not sure.”
They stare.
“I shop a lot.” I laugh weakly and shift my tote bag higher up on my shoulder. “I lose track.”
“Okay… Do you have any, like, plants that need to be watered?”
“No, no plants.”
Their face drops just enough for me to notice. Great, now they’re judging me for not being a plant person.
“Got it. Will do.”
“Thank you so much.”
“What’s your name?” It feels painfully awkward for them to ask this question now, after a full conversation, not to mention after living next door for two years. And it feels even more awkward that it didn’t occur tometo asktheirname first.
“Mallory. You?”
“Sam.”
“Okay, thanks, Sam, I really appreciate it. I owe you one.”
I start to walk away when Sam says, “What’s your number? Just in case.”
“Oh, right. Why didn’t I think of that?” I give a little snort laugh that makes me wonder, for the thousandth time, why I am the way that I am.
We exchange numbers, and I silently hope that Sam won’t actually text or call me. And then I feel bad, because they are doing me a favor. I thank them again before heading to the bus stop.
Arriving in Tampa at fourP.M.was a mistake. Both the sun and the snarling traffic are giving me an inhospitable welcome. Even with the rental car’s AC blasting, I’m sweating by the time I get to Sandy Shores Retirement Village an hour later. I find the visitor parking, and start hoofing toward Gramps’s building. This place is a compound with multiple buildings sprawled across a campus dotted with palm trees. I know the way by heart. The sticky heat is oh so familiar to me, and it’s kind of nice after a long Seattle winter. It sinks into my bones in a comforting way, although I know I’ll be sick of it soon enough.
In the center of the campus is a grassy area with a large white gazebo. A bunch of seniors are milling around in workout clothes,chatting and mopping their faces with white towels. They probably just finished tai chi or something.
“Maeve?”
I do a double take. One of the women is approaching me, beaming.
“Uh, no, I’m Mallory. Her younger sister. Hi…” I know I should know her name. She’s petite with a cloud of blondish hair, light-blue eyes rimmed with black mascara, and an incredibly white smile. She’s also kind of hot for an octogenarian. Underneath her lilac Lycra, she looks strong.
“Angela!” She spreads her hands. “I was friends with your grandmother.” She has a lyrical Southern accent.
