Page 62 of First Comes Revenge

“No? I am trying not to bother her.While sort of bothering her,” I add. “I want her to know I’m ready to talk when she is, I mean.”

“I’m pretty sure she has figured that one out, genius,” Kate laughs. “The self-revenge is a good angle. I like that. What else did you guys do to Vaughn? Could you take it farther? Maybe she feels like you’re holding back on punishing yourself?”

“Um,” I say. “I made him look at his ex-girlfriend while she was on my arm in a sexy, slutty Halloween costume. Charli also made him get a lap dance from a bunch of male strippers in front of the whole…” I trail off, shaking my head already. “No. Don’t say it.”

But Kate and Cleo are both sharing a look and a huge smile.

“I will put that on the ‘break in case of emergency’ list. But I have one more idea before it gets to that.”

* * *

I have decidedmy mistake was not being thoughtful enough with my gifts. Flowers, chocolate, and lasagna would be the key tomyheart, but I need to think about what matters to Charli. She’s an author, for starters. I also remembered the giant, heavy bag she was lugging around at the convention full of signed books.

Clearly she likes collecting signed books from authors. In other words, I have the perfect opportunity to do something thoughtful and generous.

I work with authors every day and have access to all kinds of rare signed books. I can call up a few dozen authors and demand they send me a signed copy, for God’s sake.

So that’s exactly what I did. I also snuck into Nolan’s office and a few of our higher-ups to borrow any signed books they were hoarding. Okay, borrowing might not strictly be the correct term, considering I’m planning to give these to Charli, but it’s for a good cause. They’ll live.

I’m more nervous today than I’ve been at any point until now. Even the occasional phone sex call or delivery of dirty underwear is hardly fazing me at this point. I’m nervous because this feels a little like my last idea–like my last chance.

If the signed books and my “break in case of emergency” final plan don’t work, then what? Am I actually supposed to give up? Just walk away and pretend I’m not going to spend the rest of my fucking life missing her?

At first, I figured it would get easier to be without her over time. I thought the memories of her would fade with time–growing worn at the edges and distant.

Instead, it has only gotten worse. I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop tossing and turning at night wishing I hadn’t fucked things up–wishing she was lying right there beside me. I torture myself with thoughts of what I’d trade for a single smile from her.

I’m no stranger to standing outside her building by this point. I’ve even made a few acquaintances. There’s jogging guy who likesveryshort shorts. Once, I was almost positive I saw his junk come flopping out in the open. That’s one way to make sure every part of you can breathe, I guess.

There’s the angry eater guy. He always has some kind of handheld food and he’s tearing into it like it just spit on his cat. There’s the old lady who pretends to need a walker until she leaves the building down the street. She goes in hobbling with the walker and comes out spry as a spring chicken. My theory is she’s in there doing hard drugs that make her forget she’s crippled. I’m also aware it’s a very bad theory.

I’m pacing in my usual circle with the huge bag of books and a small pile of dirty underwear at my feet.

I bag up the underwear when the day is over and take it to a dry cleaner’s to be blasted with industrial-grade cleaners. After some serious sanitation, they come out clean enough to be donated to shelters. I’m not some sappy bleeding heart, mind you, I just couldn’t think of what else to do with all the underwear I’ve been accumulating. It felt like an insult to trash cans to just throw it away, too.

After about three hours of waiting, I realize I’m standing here with a big ass pile of books. I could at least pass the time with a little light reading. I dig through the bag until I find one that catches my interest and start reading. It’s good enough that I ignore my rumbling belly for a while and my full bladder until I can’t anymore.

I’ve found that I can hit the Greek place across the street when I get hungry. They have window seating that points directly toward Charli’s building. I can spot her coming from a ways off and get out to meet her at the door if she comes while I’m eating.

I keep reading while I eat, and find myself wondering if Charli would like this book, too. I realize we never really talked much about book preferences, but I did read some of her work. Based on what I read, I think she’d like this one. I make a reminder to put it at the top of the stack I give to her.

On all the other days, she has passed me by and at least glanced my way. No words, usually, but I at least get to see her. Today, there’s no sign of Charli. I stay a little later than usual, in case she worked late. Based on the uniform she wears, I know she got a job at the coffee place a few blocks down. I get paranoid and lug my big bag of books and dirty underwear down that way to check on her before I head back.

I’m not going to bother her, of course. I just want to peek in the window and make sure she’s alright.

But the place is closed up when I pass by.

Damn.

I have a brief pang of fear that she didn’t make it home, so I do the totally reasonable thing and head back to her building. Now, it’s not as if I’ve been trying to spy through windows to figure out which one is hers–it’s just that she sometimes opens it up in the mornings and evenings and I can hear her badly humming from the street below. She’s only three floors up, after all.

I collect a pocket full of rocks on my way back to her building. Once I’m there, I do my best impression of a teen lover and start pelting her window with rocks. It’s harder than you’d think, and I hit just about every window within four or five rooms of hers.

First, an angry balding man sticks his head out and tells me to go fuck myself. Then I get a pissed off teen who records me on her phone and sounds like she’s narrating some internet video about how many pervs are in New York. I finally see the light turn on in Charli’s apartment. I drop my rocks, pick up the bags, and run for my life before she can see I was the one throwing rocks at her window.

I read a little more and finish the second book before going to bed. Even though it started well enough, it wasn’t as good as the first book. I decide it’s not good enough to give to Charli and return it to Nolan’s office, where I stole it from. After all, if she’s going to make me wait, I might as well make sure I’m not just giving heranysigned books. I want to give her the best of the best.

I repeat the same routine, except it rains today so I have to cross the street and read in the bus stop next to a homeless lady who keeps telling me about the cats she takes care of. She asks what I’m reading, and I eventually decide she might stop talking my ear off if I distract her. Once she gets past the part where I keep buying underwear from people, we seem to hit it off pretty well. She even tells me she knows a guy who probably has some really nasty underwear for me. I thank her, but assure her she really doesn’t need to reach out for me.

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