Page 19 of The Do-Over

“I’m your neighbor.” I held up the envelopes. “I got these by accident. It happens a lot, actually. I bring mail over at least twice a week. There’s always a girl here who answers and rolls her eyes a lot.” I paused and leaned to peek around his shoulder. Maybe she was in there now. He looked too young to be her father and much too old to be her boyfriend. “I hope you’ve been getting it. With our apartment numbers being so close, it makes sense. I’m A, you’re B, so you see, it’s bound to happen. Get it? See? The letter C?”

“I get it,” he said, not quite hiding the half-smile. His eyes tracked the mail I waved in the air. I froze, and he snatched it from me. My hands fluttered like drunk butterflies for a moment before I put them down.

“Thanks,” he said with a nod.

“No problem. It happened sometimes when Mrs. Duboniski lived here. She didn’t get a lot of mail. Mostly cat magazines. Oh, and the Victoria’s Secret catalog, which I thought was a little odd since she was in her seventies. Anyway, I usually bring it over when I get home from work. But I came home early because I had a… thing.”

“A funeral?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. The black clothes and your eye make-up. You look like you’ve been crying.”

Crap. My clothes. Today, I’d worn a boxy black pantsuit—a gift from my mother. Black is slimming, dear, she’d said.

“Well, my boyfriend broke up with me over the radio for concert tickets yesterday and my mom found out about it today after my sister’s boyfriend… no, wait, fiancé now, told everyone, and then my best friend’s heart was broken and, um, it’s been a bad couple of days.”

Why was I telling him this?

Those murky eyes squinted at me in a way that communicated he might be questioning my sanity. Ditto, buddy. “Wow. I’m sorry.”

I should have slapped a hand over my mouth. But did I? Of course not.

“By the way, my name is Perci. If you need anything, just knock. I’m home every night, watching TV, baking, eating, sometimes I break out a jigsaw puzzle if I’m in the mood.” I bit the inside of my lip. Hard.

The corner of his mouth quirked and now I was certain he was going to laugh. “Got it.”

“You know, I have something in the oven. I should…” I spun on my heels to bolt.

“I hope your day gets better,” he said, kindness in his voice.

“Yeah, thank you.” I sidled toward my door with a little wave. “Happy New Year, or happy holidays or, um, have a good night if, you know, you don’t celebrate.” I paused, waited a beat, but he said not a word.

Right.

I scurried to my apartment. In the bathroom, I cringed at the dark circles under my eyes from wayward mascara and the wild splay of my hair. No wonder he’d thought I’d just survived a tragedy; I looked tragic. After scrubbing my face, I grabbed a cupcake and sank into the papasan chair, curling my feet under me.

A patch of waning sunlight shone through the patio door. The outdoor space was only enough for a chair and a string of Christmas lights I’d strung along the banister. I plugged them in, and the lights twinkled back at me cheerfully.

Just then, a bright red cardinal landed on the railing. It wasn’t unusual to see them year-round, but its presence on my porch was strange. They tended to stick to trees. The tuft of feathers on its head waved gently in the wind. Its head tilted to the side and it locked eyes with me, as though we were friends, and it was stopping by for a chat. I’m not sure why I did it, but I waved.

It waited a beat and then flew off in a flurry of feathers.

EIGHT

“A wolf in sheep’s clothing is still a wolf.

’Cept now he has to dry-clean his coat.”

—MIMI

The morning of my first day back to work post-holidays and post-break-up went something like this:

6:30: Drag myself out of bed. Step gingerly onto scale. Cringe and swear off all food except kale for the rest of the day.

6:35: Fret about what to wear. Settle on one of the many black suits my mother has gifted me. Straighten hair and apply make-up. Scowl in the mirror.

7:05: Drink coffee. Give myself a pep talk: You can do this. There’s nothing to worry about. Go in, do your job. You got this.