He could very well even be her type.
3
TOM
The phone pings at 5:47 AM and drags me out of what barely counts as sleep. More like the thing I do between locking up Sullivan's and lying in bed pretending the next day isn't already here.
I reach for it without opening my eyes, and the screen lights up my face. One new message. Unknown number. I'm about to delete it when I see the preview.
Tookcare of your rival problem. You're welcome. XOXO.
My stomach drops.I know exactly one person who would text me at an ungodly hour about problems I didn't ask her to solve, who would sign off with XOXO. Marianne. New number, and she's done something.
I'm out of bed, grabbing yesterday's jeans off the floor. They smell like beer and cigarette smoke that clings to fabric, no matter how many times you wash. Gray shirt. Sneakers unlacedbecause my hands won't cooperate with fine motor skills at this time. I rush down the internal staircase that connects my apartment to the bar, each step loud in the pre-dawn quiet.
The bar's dark, chairs still on tables from last night's close, air thick with the smell of spilled beer. I don't stop. Through the door into cold morning air that makes me wish I had grabbed a jacket, but I didn't, so that's not happening now.
The block is silent. That gray-blue light before sunrise, when everything looks washed out and unreal. My shoes are the only sound as I cross the street toward Tate's storefront. Something's wrong—a color that shouldn't be there. Pink. Bright and artificial against her front window. Spray paint.
I get closer, and the pink resolves into letters.
BITCH
STAY AWAY FROM MY MAN WHORE
Still wet.Literally dripping down the glass in thin pink rivers. Fresh. Maybe ten minutes old.
Fuck.
I know what's about to happen—Tate coming downstairs in a few hours, seeing this, reading these words aimed at her because of me.
The fury that moves through me is clean and sharp and directed entirely at my ex. My mess. My responsibility. I need to tell Tate before she sees it like this.
The external metal staircase on Tate's side is identical to mine. Same rusted railing. I climb fast. Metal cold and slick under my hand, condensation from the morning chill.
I knock and wait.
Nothing. I count to ten and knock again, harder this time.
The door opens a crack. Tate squints at me like she's not sure I'm real. Sleep shorts—actual shorts, not the cutoffs she wears during the day. Oversized t-shirt hanging off one shoulder. Hair loose and messy from sleep, no headband. Her eyes are unfocused, still half-asleep, blinking at me twice in slow motion.
"Tom?"
Her voice is rough with sleep, lower than usual, none of the sharpness she uses when we're arguing. I've never heard it like this, and from out of nowhere, images of her shuffle through my mind's eye—my name on her lips in that exact voice as she wakes up beside me.
Not fucking now.
"Don't go downstairs yet."
She blinks. "W-what?"
"Someone spray-painted your window. I'm telling you before you see it. Let me clean it up for you."
That wakes her. Her eyes sharpen immediately, lock onto mine, all traces of sleep gone. "What? Who?"
"Marianne. My ex. She texted me about taking care of my rival problem. I went downstairs and … it's bad. I'm sorry."
"How bad?"