Page 18 of The Do-Over

He snorted.

“I’m sorry, Mathias.”

“I waited too long. Missed my chance,” he said, and I thought his voice slurred, which was strange. I’d never met anyone who could hold his liquor as well as Mathias.

“My sister is an idiot.”

“Maybe, but she’s an engaged idiot now.” He sighed, and I heard the clink of ice cubes in a glass.

“Do you need me to come get you?” I asked, my heart breaking a little for the sadness in his voice.

“Nah, I took an Uber.”

I waited a beat, but when he didn’t speak, I cleared my throat. “So, what now?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Now I have a new New Year’s resolution.”

“What’s that?”

He laughed, although it wasn’t a happy one. “I’m going to fall out of love with Phoebe Mayfield.”

SEVEN

“Home is where you hang your hat

and eat ice cream straight out of the carton with a spoon.”

—MIMI

It was almost 5 p.m. by the time I arrived home.

“Longest day ever,” I said to Sal as I fed him.

Sal fluttered in understanding. Why couldn’t more people be like my fish? The world would be a better place.

I rubbed my tired eyes as I wandered back to the kitchen. The mail from yesterday still sat on the counter—bill, advertisement, bill, late Christmas card. At the last two envelopes, I paused and frowned. Mail for the neighbor again. It wasn’t uncommon. The two apartments on my floor were numbers 207A and 207B and our mail was often tangled in transit.

About two months ago, I’d started getting packages and forwarded mail from New York for one Nate Russo, apartment 207B. I’d never met him, though I knocked on his door at least twice a week. A dark-haired teenage girl who spoke in grunts and eye rolls always answered and took the mail with an indifferent shrug.

I slipped out the door, padded barefoot down the linoleum hallway before halting at Mr. Nate Russo’s door, and knocked.

The door swung open. “Yes?”

I took in the bare feet, worn jeans and paused at the white undershirt, so tight I imagined it was one deep breath away from busting at the seams. Not that I was complaining. Broad shoulders, sinewy arms, tapered waist.

The view was distracting.

“Can I help you?”

I blinked and dragged my eyes up to his face. Sadly. “Um, hi.”

“So…” he said, tilting his head. I guessed he wasn’t quite six feet tall and was somewhere around my age. But he wasn’t handsome; the harshness of his face prevented that. It was as though God had forgotten to sand his edges—severe cheekbones, a brutally straight nose, eyebrows like dark slashes, one bisected by a small white scar, and a jawline of the warrior variety. Except for his eyes, which were a strange, murky mix of browns and greens and golds.

“So?” Without thought, I brought my thumb up to gnaw on the nail and whacked myself in the face with the envelopes in my hand. My ears went hot.

His lips pressed together in either annoyance or amusement—I couldn’t quite tell. “You knocked on my door.”

He was right, of course. Straightening, I took a deep breath and did what I usually did when I was nervous—I talked. A lot.