I need air, so I walk out the front door into the afternoon.
William Shakespurr is on his crate. The wooden one by the dumpster that he's claimed as his personal throne. He has a collar now. Forest green, small silver tag with his full name engraved: William Shakespurr. Still not sure he likes his name, but he hasn't hissed at me so far, so I'll take that as a yes.
He allows me to pet him exactly three times before walking away, and I've learned not to push for four.
Every single time Tom comes through the back door of his bar, though, William hisses.
I find this concerning but also a little bit vindicating. Animals are good judges of character. I'm choosing to let this mean something.
I sit down on the step, and William opens one eye, assesses me for a second, then closes it again. The afternoon is warm, early summer warmth that hasn't turned brutal yet, so the block is fairly quiet.
Minus the unfriendly neighbor, I really, really like it here.
"Hello, Tate."
Beth is crossing the parking lot with a paper bag in one hand and a mini ice cream tub in the other. She does this every day, sometimes early in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon.
I've probably gained two inches around my waist, and I don't care. Whatever she brings is always delicious.
She hands me the bag. Inside are a still-warm loaf of sourdough and two raspberry scones. My mouth waters.
Beth told me that she makes opinions about people in the first thirty seconds and rarely revises them, and she said it plainly, as fact rather than warning. She also mentioned that Tom has bought bread from her every Sunday for five years, and she has never once given him a free loaf.
She brought me one on my first day of moving here.
"You know Tom's been watching," Beth says.
"I noticed."
"He watched the place before you, too. Every time someone looked at leasing it, he'd get tense."
"Why?"
"Same reason anyone watches anything. He's scared and worried. He's been here five years, barely keeping his headabove water most of that time. When he finally gets a little more stable, someone moves in next door. I'd be tense too."
I think about Tom standing in my doorway one week ago, and well, he looked about as scared as a brick wall.
"He's not exactly warm," I say carefully.
Beth laughs. "No. He's not. Last winter, when the deli beside my bakery caught fire from faulty wiring, he let them use his kitchen every day for a week so they could keep up with orders and deliveries."
Beth leaves after ten minutes the way she always does, and I'm alone on the step with half a loaf of sourdough and thoughts I'm not ready to organize. William Shakespurr has moved from his crate to the step beside me, which he's never done before, and I hold very still because I don't want to break whatever treaty we've just negotiated.
The back door of Sullivan's opens. Tom comes through it—Sullivan's t-shirt, tattered jeans, sneakers. He has a garbage bag in one hand, and he's heading for the dumpster. Then he sees me and stops.
For one full second, we just look at each other.
Then William Shakespurr hisses.
Tom's mouth does something that might be the beginning of a smile or might be indigestion. It's gone before I can identify it. He throws the garbage bag in the dumpster, and I watch the way his shoulders move under the t-shirt, the way his hands are wide and well, massive.
Dear God, I need to stop noticing things about Tom's hands immediately.
He walks back toward his door but stops. "You get a lot of deliveries."
My heart skips. "It's a business. Businesses get deliveries."
"Big deliveries."