Fatigue, moodiness, nausea, sore breasts ...
The flu doesn’t last this long, right?
I gasp.
I have an implant for birth control, plus I always use condoms, but I haven’t had a period since ...
No way.
I toss my takeout in the trash and jog all the way to the canopy of my building. My nerves are stretched thin as I picture Tuck and company catching up with me. I’m almost to the door when nausea hits again, and I bend over and hurl into the landscaping. Herman calls out a “Hello,” and I toss up a hand and dash for the entrance. I make it to the elevator, step inside, and bang the button for my floor. I’ve seen Tuck in this elevator once, but I suspect he uses the express onein the garage most of the time. It goes straight up to his place without stopping. Tonight, though, he’ll probably come in through the lobby. I stab the button for my floor again.
Mr.Darden, also called “Darden” when I’m not speaking to him directly, steps in with me. Well dressed with gray hair and glasses, he leans on a gold-tipped cane. Cece says its real gold.
I shouldn’t be able to afford Wickham, but one of the counselors at the group home said that the owners gave rent breaks to kids who lived in foster care. I filled out the application, wrote an essay, and got in at a discount. It’s a tax break for the owners of the building. Darden was born and raised here and was part of the board of directors that made the final decisions on who got in.
Closing my eyes at the motion of the elevator, I lean back against the cold metal and take deep breaths as I force myself not to gag at the metallic scent in the small space. I once read that pregnant women have supersmell. I chew on my lip. No way. Impossible. I am not preggo.
“No hello, MissLane?”
I pop one eye open and push up a smile. “Hey, Mr.Darden. Sorry. Good to see you. How are you?”
He grunts. “Forget that. You look homeless in those clothes. No wonder you can’t find a job. Kids these days. No work ethic.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “It’s only been two weeks. I need more time.”
“You’re a tattoo person.” He says it like I’m a serial killer. “Such a waste of a great mind. You should be selling your art. Open your own gallery.”
Ah, that’s the dream, but it requires money.
“I do sell my art. Don’t you own one?” I tap my chin. “Yep, that’s right. You requested a honey badger—very odd, and not my usual. I believe it hangs in your guest bathroom. Probably to frighten people away.”
“It was a pity purchase.” He points his cane at me menacingly. “I’m glad you’re out of that parlor. You’re too talented for those heathens.”
“Don’t be such a snob,” I say; then another bout of nausea rises as the elevator lurches. I groan, and his scowl deepens.
“What is the matter with you? Are you sick?”
“Nothing. I’mfine.” If I keep saying it, then it’s true. Obviously.
He harrumphs. “I know whatfinemeans, MissLane. I was married, and it never meant anything good. We’ve been neighbors for twelve years, and you never say you’refine.” He grumbles under his breath, and I catch a “Damn that Edward” and “What a bastard.”
A ghost of a smile crosses my face. He comes across as grouchy, but he’s much more than that.
The elevator stops at our floor, and we step out. My nausea seems to settle as I walk with him to his apartment, trying not to hover when he wobbles a little. My place is next door, although his is three times as big.
“How’s the hip doing?” He had replacement surgery several weeks ago.
He grunts as he unlocks his door. “I’m old and wake up every day with a new ailment.I’m fine.”
A small laugh comes from me. “Do you need anything? I can bring over some popcorn, and we can watch the nature channel. Your favorite.”
“Not tonight.”
I search his craggy face, looking for signs of tiredness, but he waves me off and steps inside his apartment. “What are you going to do about a job, MissLane?”
Ignoring his question, I smile. “Let’s have game night soon. How about Monopoly?”
“Don’t distract me, MissLane.”