CHAPTER THREE
Mick
From escargot to creme brulée, Casey and I laid waste to that meal, laughing and talking the whole time. She was one pretty girl. Hot. But…I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something about her. From the moment she shook my hand, it was like I was totally comfortable with her. Being an attorney has taught me one thing: trust no one. So normally, when I meet someone, I’m just waiting for their line of bullshit—and everybody has one. Everybody except this girl.
When we were done, true to my word, I wrote out a check to the Peace Corps that matched the amount of the bill. The waiter gave us an envelope, and Casey had the address memorized so we were good to go. She was so grateful and happy—it was just adorable. Worth every penny. Yeah, I spent way more on this date than I did on any of those shallow gold-diggers, but this time it was different. It felt good. I need to remember to donate to more stuff, and not just for the tax break. I’d like to feel that good all the time.
I did not want to say goodbye. Usually by the end of a dinner date, I don’t want to hear any more chatter, but this time, it felt like we’d just started talking.
I was really surprised when she accepted my offer of a ride home. She seemed like the cautious type, but she just said, “Okay, thanks,” like she’d known me for years and had nothing to fear. We found an old-school mailbox and Casey jumped out of my new-old Prius to mail the check, showing off those heartbreaker long legs of hers in the process. Did I mention how hot this
girl was? When she was out of the car, I had to adjust the package so she didn’t think she was going to get attacked.
I was shocked to hear her address.
“No, that’s Addison Hill. Is there another Jackson Street?” I said.
“I do live in Addison Hill,” she said, like it was nothing.
“That’s so dangerous! There’s all kinds of gang activity, drugs, drive-bys—I can’t believe you live there.”
“Lots of people live there, Mick, not just me.”
“Aren’t you afraid? That place is like a war zone.”
“I just came from an actual war zone in Ethiopia. There’s not a battle every day or anything, but there’s violence on the border all the time. Shepherds watch their herds with AK-47s. This neighborhood is pretty peaceful, by comparison.”
“So, you’re not scared?”
“Well, I didn’t say that,” she said softly. “Sometimes, yeah.”
“Then why do you live here?”
She looked at me like I was insane. “It’s cheap.”
“I know that, but you’re the director of the non-profit, right?” She had told me over dinner that she worked for a non-profit group that helped foster kids get services and stuff like that. “Certainly they pay you enough to afford to be safe.”
“Ha. I’m the director of a tiny, underfunded non-profit. But yes, they do pay me enough to live someplace else, but I’m giving a chunk of my salary back, when I get my first check.”
“Wait, what? Giving your salary back?”
“There are a lot of things I’d like us to be able to offer the families that we can’t afford. It doesn’t do much, but every little bit helps.”
I just sat there at the red light and thought about that. I had never met anyone who gave their salary back to their employer for any reason.
She said, “You probably think I’m naive and ridiculous, right?”
“No! Not at all! Idealistic is the word I would use. I just wish you could be safe and give the money back.”
“Anyway, here we are. Would you like to come in for a glass of wine or anything?”
She asked me, but then looked at her fingers, which were twisting together in her lap. Did she want me to come in or not? Well, I sure wanted to go in! Not to mention, get her to the door in safety. So I said, “Sure!” and locked the car up tight and we walked towards her place.
Believe it or not, her neighborhood was totally posh about a hundred years ago. Casey’s place was once a mansion that was probably the latest, most luxurious thing you could buy at the time. And it was huge. I bet it had ten bedrooms, plus servants’ rooms on the top floor. But now, it was a shithole.
The front walk was brick, laid in patterns, but now unevenly patched with concrete. One long tread was missing in the steps that led to the wide porch. Both of the tall windows on either side of the entrance were boarded up. There were double doors that were supposed to open inward, but one was nailed shut, and the other sagged on its hinges so that Casey had to push hard to open it. She just walked in.
“No lock?” I said.
“No. My own door has one, though.”
The whole place was like that. Splendor in ruins. It made you sad to see it, honestly. Casey led me down a squeaky-floored hallway to her door. Which had a padlock on it, yes, attached to a thin and flimsy latch that would snap with one hard kick. I tried not to let my shock at all this show on my face. This girl lived in danger, slept in danger, every day and night of her life. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and protect her from every bad thing in the world. It didn’t seem right that she had to come home every night to this sad, smelly, run-down old pile of bricks.
Her apartment itself was completely different on the inside. It smelled nice, and I soon saw the source, a single hyacinth in a pot, blooming its pink heart out. Casey had used different kinds of cloth, clearly things she’d brought from Africa, to make the place vibrant and bright. Fabric was up on the walls and thrown over her couch, whatever she could do. A couple of small lamps shed a warm light on the bold printed fabric. The room had a lot of big windows, including French doors that led directly outside. I didn’t even want to think about what kind of locks they had on them. Even with good locks, all that glass was an open invitation to a thief—or worse.
“Have a seat,” she said. “Would you like some wine?”
I sat on her futon, gingerly once I noticed that one leg of it was held up with a can of tomatoes. “I’d love some. What kind is it?”
“Red,” she said. What a funny girl. She went to the kitchen area—just a corner with a sink, stove, and mini fridge. I noticed that the faucet was dripping. She brought us each a juice glass full of wine and sat next to me on the futon.
We both sat for a few seconds and sipped the wine. It was the first awkward moment of the night. Which is pretty good for a first date. Here we were, alone in her apartment. I felt like grabbing her and crushing her against me, but at the same time, like standing guard outside her apartment all night. Crazy, right?
“So, do you—” she started.
“Can I—” I said. “I’m sorry, go ahead.”
“No, you.” The lamp beside her cast its light on her gorgeous hair, bringing out its deep red warmth, its glossy shine.
She didn’t say anything so I said, “I know I asked this already, and you said you lived here because it was cheap. And I get that. But…. You’re a nice girl, a beautiful girl with a college education, and you’re…. Well, you’re living kind of rough. Don’t you—”