As we reach the fifth floor and the doors open, I’m still reeling. Mr. Gordon goes on, oblivious. “As per our last email, your refrigerator and pantry have been fully stocked. I’ve taken the liberty of chilling several of your favored beverages to celebrate your arrival. Also, your furniture was moved in last night, which is for the best, since I doubt they could have gotten your bed in after your boxes arrived. To that end, I’ve left a box cutter and Band-Aids on the counter, should you need them. And I have a number to call for a recycling pickup when you’re ready.”
I’m so impressed I want to hug him, but I put my hand on his shoulder instead. “Thank you, Mr. Gordon.”
“It’s why I’m here, sir.”
“Joey.”
He raises one eyebrow at that before placing the folder in my basket, handing me my keys reentering the lift. Leaving me on my own. The short hallway has a compass painted on the marble beneath my feet. From here, I can see two large doors on opposite ends.
I know which one is mine, but my imagination rolodex instantly scrolls through every fantasy quest I know. Two doorways and a choice is a fairly common trope.
“One door leads to certain doom. The other will take you home,” I intone dramatically, thankful there’s no one around to witness my madness. I could blame it on low blood sugar, but I’m like this on a full stomach too, so there’s really no excuse.
As soon as I use my new keys to open my door, I want to switch with my neighbor.
Too. Many. Boxes.
I almost give in to the panic and nope my way out again, but then I see it. Over a smaller box mountain, I glimpse French doors framed by a wall of windows that leads to a balcony. My balcony.
I drop my bag and make it through the maze to get a closer look.
I can see the harbor lights from my balcony.
The building is quirky but it’s right on the water. Below me is a mysterious…roller derby queen? Moonshine distiller? Who knows? And down in the lobby is a man who chilled my orange soda and bought me Band-Aids while wearing glasses with diamond-encrusted frames.
He also got you tiny fruit and caramels. In some countries that’s as good as a legal adoption.
I think I might like it here.
I do a walkthrough of my two large bedrooms, one upstairs and one down. I have two baths with tubs big enough to float in and showers the size of my last apartment, a kitchen covered in marble and brushed steel, and a spacious living room with wood planks on the floor that look like they came from an old barn.
The wall that separates my apartment from my neighbor’s is the only spot in the apartment that carried the theme from the lobby upstairs. Weathered steel beams and rivets, old bricks and deliberately chipped plaster. The rest of the place is as modern as you can get.
And then there’s that balcony. Wrought iron sides, but a low brick privacy wall across the front surround a broad tiled floor that makes me think I need to get some comfy loungers to sit out there and enjoy the view.
If I can manage to unpack these boxes, I can see myself making this place a home. As long as my real neighbor isn’t my lobby guy’s more approachable twin. Which I am not going to turn into my own personal fantasy later tonight.
Stop thinking about him.
In the upstairs bedroom, I find the storage container I had my clothes shipped in and rummage through it so I can change into comfortable pants and a sweatshirt for the long night ahead.
Once back in the living room, I notice the 50-inch flat screen is already on the wall and plugged in. Thank God that’s done because it’s bolted into the brick. If it was left up to me, it would be sitting on a box leaned up against the wall. Bonus, all that brick means the lobby lurker won’t have to listen as I watch a Henry Cavill movie tonight. Don’t judge.
I notice a little sticky note on the TV remote on the counter. “Already signed in to the wi-fi.” Mr. Gordon is a wizard.
I turn on the screen and find the app to make my first official FaceTime call from my new place.
Tani answers on the second ring, her beautifully familiar face filling up my screen like some big brother goddess. “What’s happening behind you? And what are you holding?” she asks before saying hello.
“A boxcutter. And boxes are happening behind me. Mountains of—you’re going to love this—unmarked boxes.”
Her gasp is sufficiently dramatic. “Unmarked? I told you, didn’t I? I told you hiring teenagers you didn’t know would end in tears.”
“You said it would end in robbery,” I remind her. “Silver lining? I’d have fewer boxes if that were the case.”