Page 15 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Maybe we take the same route,” he calls down the sidewalk.

I stop so that all he can do is approach me now. He does so tentatively, like I might hit him with pepper spray, and honestly, I still might.

“Where do you live exactly?” I ask.

He scoffs. “I’m not going to tell you where I live.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re my mortal enemy, remember?”

“Ah. Yes,” I nod. “Your point?”

“What point?”

“I’m not going to let you follow me home.”

“I’m not going to let you follow me home,” he counters.

“So we’re just going to stand here?”

He sweeps a casual hand through his hair, like this option is fine with him. I fold my arms across my chest, ready to wait it out. Eventually, I roll my eyes and start walking again. This is definitely my angry walk. My heels clack across the sidewalk with measured annoyance, until I’m finally opening the door to my building. As I do this, I see Quentin a few paces behind, staring at me, slack jawed. The realization hits me before he says anything.

“Oh come on,” I exclaim. “You can’t actually live here!”

I firmly plant myself on the sidewalk and let the apartment building door close behind me, just in case. If he is actually trying to follow me home and may be planning to kill me, I won’t make his entering my building easy.

He holds up a flat, gray key fob with the basic outline of a cotton flower on it. I recognize it as the same one I have on my keyring. When he taps it against the reader, the light turns green and the lock clicks open. Something inside me – something that feels a lot like one of the existential threads holding me together – threatens to snap. Maybe in a moment I’ll simply collapse to the sidewalk like a spent marionette, unable to continue playing my part in whatever star-crossed script this is.

“Am I supposed to believe this is another amazing coincidence?” I ask bitterly.

“Bernadette set it up,” he says.

I eye him, but it checks out. Bernadette is our rock star executive assistant, the same one who recommended this place to me a few years back, once my taste for commuting had soured, because she saw it highlighted in a local article and thought it “looked like me”. I remember now that she may have stopped me on my way past her desk a few weeks ago and asked if I still loved it enough to recommend. She just hadn’t mentioned for whom.

“I don’t really know the area anymore,” he says, continuing his defense. “And I definitely didn’t know you lived here – or even existed – when I moved in. But you’re free to believe whatever you want.”

He adds this last bit with finality before retreating inside. Since I spent the past five minutes stalking my way here, it seems silly for me to do anything but follow.

The air conditioning of the small lobby welcomes us. The Exchange is one of those live-work communities with a row of convenient little shops on the first floor and condo-style living up above. Normally, I’m not impressed by the concept, but this one is different. It lives in a remodeled section of the city’s historic district, and thanks to some passionate citizens who petitioned the council, they’d kept a lot of the building’s character during the renovation. We’re surrounded by old marble floors and high ceilings, the kind that make me lower my voice to avoid an echo, though there’s no one else nearby.

“I think we need to talk about this,” I say. “Establish some… rules of engagement.”

“Rules of engagement?" His gaze slides over to mine, equal parts annoyance and intrigue. “Are you planning to take me by force?”

I ignore his innuendo as the elevator descends into view. It’s one of the old school ones that boasts copper cage doors that open and close like an accordion. I checked with the city permits on file before I moved in to make sure it has all of the modern safety features, and once armed with that reassurance, I have grown to love it. I slide it open and allow us inside.

“This is – for better or worse – a partnership,” I reply. “And the most successful partnerships require that all parties agree to what is and isn’t acceptable before things have a chance to get… complicated.”

“You think working with me is going to get complicated?”

I allow the fact that we’re both standing in this elevator to answer his question. We’re surrounded by every indication that things are already spiraling in the unmistakable direction of complicated.

He seems to be considering this. In the meantime, neither of us selects a floor. The elevator lingers, unsure of where to go.

“What do you propose?” he says.

“I can draft something. Give you an opportunity to review before we sign off.”

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