I can’t keep the smile off my face as I dash up to the rickety stairs and enter his house.
I was so distracted yesterday that I didn’t notice a single thing about this cabin. But I do now.
The hallway is short and narrow and as I walk down it, the floor squeaks. The walls are beige in color and bare. Once upon a time, I think this hallway was clean and free of dusty cobwebs that hang in the corners of the ceiling. The wooden walls didn’t have cracks in them, either.
I come upon the living room and the state of disarray is even more pronounced.
The dusty, marked-up windows. In fact, one of them is broken even. A jagged hole in the glass, with cracks running up and down in all directions.
The furniture is all old, reminding me of those abandoned mansions where everything is covered by white sheets for years and years, until someone comes along and takes the sheets off and lets the couch and the coffee table breathe.
Only here, nothing is breathing.
Everything is suspended and alone. Almost dead and lifeless.
And in the midst of all this is Mr. Edwards. He stands in the kitchen – tall and aloof – at the island where he was yesterday when I wanted to crawl up to him, as he watches me watch where he lives.
“Nice place,” I tell him.
He accepts the fake compliment with a dip of his chin. “Thanks. I decorated it myself.”
I shake my head at him. “You do know that I’m going to clean it all up, don’t you?”
“Why? Are you my maid now?”
“No. I’m your fairy godmother.”
He studies me, runs his eyes up and down my disheveled body. Like yesterday, I’m mud-caked and dirty. The tendrils of my hair hang around my pale face in a sweaty mess, and I think I left muddy footprints on his floor when I walked inside.
He’s not looking at the muddy footprints though. He’s looking at the state of me and I’m not sure if I pass muster.
I so wanna, though.
So, so wanna.
Finally, he looks me in the eyes, nothing on his expression to suggest what he’s thinking as he says, “My godmother is dead. And I’m allergic to fairy dust.”
Slowly, I smile.
Then I chuckle and he watches it all like he can’t stop.
I know it’s not true but I’m liking the delusion in this moment. So much so that I tell him, “It’s okay. If you faint from your allergies, I’ll stab you in the heart with a very sharp needle and bring you back to life, Mr. Edwards.”
Mr. Edwards looks at my chest for a flicker of a second before murmuring, “Yeah, I’d rather you don’t. I’m not sure being alive is on my agenda.”
Then he walks away from the island and goes to the cabinet above the sink. Out comes his precious: Jack Daniels.
But before he can take a sip, I blurt out, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
His eyes flick to me, bottle clutched in his hand. “Yeah? Why? Is it poisoned? Like the water I’m going to give you in about two minutes.”
I roll my eyes at his sarcasm.
“Yeah, that’s funny.” I go to the island and lean against it. “What I mean is that the precious Jack Daniels of yours is not doing you any favors.”
He narrows his eyes. “Noted.”
“You know, every alcoholic thinks that he’s just so smart, doesn’t he? But he’s not. For example, did you know that drinking has both short-term and long-term effects? Like, long-term, you could lose your memory. You could get alcoholic hepatitis. Cardiomyopathy, liver fibrosis, high blood pressure including erectile dysfunction.” I pause so the information can sink in. “Yeah, I’m not kidding. I mean, it’s all over the internet, the news, the TV. Everyone knows how alcohol is bad and –”
“What was the last one?” he interrupts.
“What?”
“The last thing you said. After high blood pressure.”
I squint, thinking about it. And just as I figure out what I did say, I notice that his eyebrows go up in challenge.
“What, you don’t think I can say it?” I fold my arms across my chest.
He shrugs. “If I thought that, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Erectile dysfunction, okay? You’ll get erectile dysfunction if you keep drinking.”
He sets his bottle down and folds his arms across his chest too, leaning against the counter. Now it looks like we’re having a face off of some kind.
“What’s erectile dysfunction?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Enlighten me.”
I tap my foot for a few seconds before I round the island, causing a ruckus on the sagging hardwood floor, and stand directly in front of him.
I crane my neck up to look at him – God, he’s tall – and he bows his head, looking down at me. We’re so close that I can feel his minty breath on my lips. So close that my feet recklessly think that it’s okay to close that inch of distance between us and get up on his feet.