FIVE

Diary entry of Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam, dated October 20

Dear Diary,

Oh, gods.

Is it possible for a person like me to die from shame?

I sit at my desk at 2 in the morning, desperately trying to remind myself that Miss Greenberg is a lady. A lady whose beauty far surpasses what I noticed when we first met. A lady with lovely curves, delightful freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, and a mouth that will now haunt my dreams—but a lady nonetheless.

It would appear I must also remind a certain traitorous part of my anatomy—one that has not responded thusly to a woman in over one hundred years—of this fact as well.

My thoughts go down a dangerous path and I do not know how to proceed. Before seeing Miss Greenberg nearly unclothed this evening I wanted nothing more from her than the opportunity to learn about the modern world by observing her from a respectable distance. A day ago, the idea that I might want anything else from her had never crossed my mind.

But now . . .

God’s thumbs, but I am the worst, filthiest sort of reprobate.

I do not know if Miss Greenberg has living parents. I must find out if she does—and if so, I must apologize to them for putting their daughter into such a compromising position. I must apologize to Miss Greenberg as well, of course. Preferably with a gift that adequately expresses my contrition. I will consult Reginald to see if he has ideas on what might be suitable. (He has, after all, long since been in the habit of needing to apologize to women.)

In the meantime, I shall go down to the lake and run out my frustrations. It’s been entirely too long since I have gone for a nighttime run. Hopefully, the rush of cool night air will clear my head. If that doesn’t do it, hopefully one of the library books Reginald has leant me will do the trick.

In entirely unrelated news, tonight I learned there exists a truly staggering array of cookware options. The twenty-first century may be what finally kills me after all these years—if living with Miss Greenberg doesn’t do it first.

FJF

I slept later than usual the next morning, doing everything I could to delay leaving my bedroom and risk having to see Frederick again so soon after what happened the night before.

Fortunately, there was no sign of him once I did finally poke my head out of my room, my giant art bag slung over one shoulder. Of course, he shouldn’t have been outside his room right then given that it was eleven in the morning. But I breathed a sigh of relief all the same.

The inevitable could be put off a little longer.

Frederick’s bedroom door was closed. But it was always closed—even when I’d bumped into him the night before—so that didn’t tell me if he was asleep in there or not. I kept my tread as light as possible, just in case, as I made my way to the front door.

Moving quietly was awkward and stressful; my gait wasn’t exactly what one would call graceful, even when I wasn’t carrying an art bag that weighed a ton. Fortunately, Frederick’s bedroom door stayed shut.

If he was in there, and had heard me, he was trying to avoid me as much as I was hoping to avoid him.

Which was fine. Completely fine. Preferable, in fact, to the alternative.

I didn’t think I had ever been happier in my life to walk into my art studio when I got there an hour later.

Calling it my art studio wasn’t accurate, of course. The space was called Living Life in Color and was owned by Joanne Ferrero, an elderly eccentric who decades ago had been a reasonably big deal on the Chicago art scene. It was located on the first floor of a small building in Pilsen and was shared by about two dozen local painters, metalworkers, and potters who approached their craft with varying degrees of seriousness. Some of them, like me, hoped to make a career out of art one day and spent as much time there as their schedules would allow. Others—like Scott, who was sketching something at the large communal table that took up the bulk of the studio space when I arrived—had regular day jobs and simply rented space there to indulge a creative hobby and blow off some occasional steam.

“Hey, Scott,” I said, happy to see him. Because it was mid-morning on a Wednesday there was hardly anyone in the studio, and there was plenty of space at the table. That suited me just fine; I liked being able to spread out all my supplies when I worked.

I pulled up a chair to the table and started rummaging around in my bag for my pencils.

“Hey.” He stopped what he was working on—a charcoal sketch of a bouquet of roses, Sam’s favorite flower—and turned to face me. “I’m glad you’re here. Sam and I were going to reach out to you about an opportunity we just found out about.”

“Oh?” I walked over to the shelf marked C. Greenberg where I stored a lot of my in-progress canvases. With my eviction notice and then my move, I hadn’t been to the studio in almost two weeks. Fortunately, my current work in progress—a watercolor field of sunflowers done in bright yellows and greens, over which I planned to superimpose as many fast-food wrappers as I could get to fit on the canvas—seemed none the worse for wear for my absence.

“Yeah,” Scott said. “You know our friend whose family owns that art gallery in River North?”

I bit my lip, drawing a blank. Who was he talking about? He and Sam had lots of friends, but most of them were either Scott’s colleagues from his university’s English department or other lawyers like Sam. I’d remember someone with an art gallery, wouldn’t I?

I sat back down at the table, and then it hit me.

“You mean David? Your wedding coordinator?”

I’d almost forgotten that after their bachelor party, Scott and Sam had struck up an unlikely friendship with the guy they’d contracted to plan their wedding. I vaguely remembered David telling us he came from serious family money, and that among the other things they owned was a wildly unprofitable art gallery near the Loop.

I was pretty sure this conversation had happened while everyone involved—including myself—was in the process of getting extremely drunk on celebratory champagne. Which is probably why I’d forgotten all about it until that moment.

“That’s David,” Scott agreed.

“Yes, okay, this is ringing a vague bell. What about him?” Was I misremembering that this art gallery was mostly just a tax write-off for David’s rich family? Could it have taken off enough in the six months since I’d last seen David for it to be able to hire someone? That seemed hard to believe.

But why else would Scott be bringing this up?

“At dinner last night, David told us that his family’s gallery is planning a juried art show with another, bigger gallery in River North.” He paused, fighting a smile. “With a gallery that’s actually successful, I should say.”

My eyes went wide. I hadn’t had a piece accepted into a juried show in years. Chicago only had so many juried shows per year, and I wasn’t bringing in enough money with my art to submit my pieces more widely. If I could get a piece into this show, and possibly even win a prize, it could be just the shot in the arm my non-career needed.

“Do you know anything about what mediums they’re looking for?” The last time I’d spoken with David we’d discussed whether Eye of the Tiger was a tasteful choice for Sam and Scott’s first dance. We hadn’t chatted about his taste in art. Scott pushed the sketch he was working on to the side and pulled his tablet from his bag.

“Let’s look it up.”

I watched as he typed River North art exhibition into the search bar, reminding myself there was no point in getting excited, or thinking that maybe my luck was finally starting to improve, until I saw what this show was about. Despite my best efforts at staying calm, though, my palms were already sweating by the time Scott found what he was looking for and turned his tablet around so I could see it.

“Oh,” I said, pleasantly surprised when I saw the theme listed at the top of the call for submissions. “They’re asking for pieces inspired by contemporary society.”

“That’s great,” Scott said. “It doesn’t get more contemporary than what you do.”

I hummed in agreement, scrolling down the page. It only got better the more I read.

“It looks like all mediums are welcome,” I said, my smile growing. “Including multimedia works.” My pieces, which combined traditional oil and watercolor paintings with found objects, were the very definition of multimedia.

Scott tapped the bottom of the screen, where the prizes were listed. “Did you notice that the grand prize is a cash award of one thousand dollars?”

My throat went dry. There would also be a few smaller awards given out for excellence in different categories, and I’d be delighted to win any of them because the most important thing about winning a prize at a juried art show is the recognition that comes with it, but . . .

Well, a thousand dollars would really come in handy.

“The fine print here says only twenty applicants will be selected,” I said, feeling the familiar beginnings of doubt creeping in. This had the makings of an incredibly competitive selection process. Getting into it in the first place would probably be a tall order.

“You never know if you don’t try,” Scott said, not unkindly. “You should go for it, Cassie.”

I handed Scott back his tablet and took a deep breath. “I should,” I agreed. Maybe nothing would come of it, just like nothing had come from most of my attempts to get recognition for my art these past few years.

Then again, maybe my luck was finally starting to turn around.

Frederick wasn’t home when I got back from the studio that evening.

I didn’t see him the next day—or evening—either.

Running into him again at some point was inevitable, of course. We lived together. But hopefully the longer we put that off, the less awkward the inevitable would be. In the meantime, our conversations, such as they were, were limited to notes we left for each other on the kitchen table. They mostly concerned the logistics of our living arrangement and, honestly? It was easier that way. Frederick made no reference in any of his notes to having seen me almost naked the other night. Neither did I. It was like we’d reached some unspoken agreement to pretend nothing awkward, or hot, or awkwardly hot had ever happened between us.

It was probably for the best. Sam would think so, anyway.

Even if my mind kept replaying that moment when Frederick and I bumped into each other after my shower when I should have been focusing on other things.

Dear Miss Greenberg,

I do not wish to be a nag, but please do remember to collect your discarded socks from the living room floor before retiring to bed. I just slipped on a sock I know isn’t mine on my way to the door and very nearly injured myself.

(Also, I must ask—are fuzzy blue knee socks with green puppets on them the current style?)

With kind regards,

Frederick J. Fitzwilliam

Frederick,

Ack! So sorry about the socks! I’ll do better, I promise.

And no, HA, fuzzy Kermit the Frog socks are not “the current style.” OBVIOUSLY, hahahaha. You’re hilarious. Those were a joke from my friend Sam.

Also, before I forget could you please remember to give me your WiFi network name and password? Sorry to keep harping on this, but I’ve been using my phone as a hotspot since moving in, and it eats through my data.

Cassie

Dear Miss Greenberg,

I had not intended to be funny in my note to you, though I am pleased to have made you laugh regardless.

On an unrelated note, the woman who lives on the second floor just informed me Thursday is “trash day.” I was unaware of this, as I am not in the regular habit of throwing things away.

Now that there are two of us here we might want to participate in this weekly ritual. I assume you throw things away? If so, would you be so kind as to procure a rubbish bin? I do not own one, nor do I know what one costs or how one would go about obtaining one. I will deduct whatever you spend in purchasing one from your monthly rent.

With kind regards,

Frederick J. Fitzwilliam

ps: Regarding your questions concerning WiFi and network names and passwords I do not believe I have any of those things, but I will confer with Reginald and let you know.

I stared at that note for a while before replying to it.

How could a grown adult not have a trash can? And not know where to get one?

And he didn’t know if he had Wi-Fi? That had to be another of his peculiarly dry jokes. I’d follow up with him about that the next time I saw him.

Frederick—I don’t throw much away either. I don’t like getting rid of anything that might have a use later, especially since upcycling is a big part of my art. But on principle I feel like two grown-ups should own at least one single trash can between them. Right? I’ll get one at Target after work.

Cassie

ps: Why do you keep calling me Miss Greenberg? There’s no need for us to be so formal with each other, is there? Just call me Cassie.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I added a quick smiling sketch of myself, holding a garbage can in my arms, before leaving the note on the kitchen table. I hadn’t drawn little cartoon figures in a while, and I told myself it was good practice to drown out the voice in my head yelling at me for flirting with him.

Frederick’s reply was waiting for me on the table when I got home from work with our brand-new kitchen trash can.

Dear Miss Greenberg Cassie,

The picture you drew for me on your latest note is lovely. Is that meant to be you? You clearly have a great deal of talent.

Thank you for handling the rubbish bin situation.

Per your request, going forward I will do my best to refer to you by your first name rather than “Miss Greenberg.” However, calling you “Cassie” goes against both my upbringing and my instincts. As such, please be patient with me if I occasionally forget and revert to more formal manners of address.

FJF

I quickly tamped down the strange rush of pleasure that shot through me at his compliment on my art, reminding myself that I’d spent less than ten minutes on that doodle and he was clearly only trying to be nice. I chose instead to focus on how weird he was being about calling me by my first name.

Frederick,

It goes against your upbringing and your instincts to call me Cassie instead of “Miss Greenberg”? Really? Who raised you, Jane Austen?

Cassie

At the end of that note I drew a hasty caricature of someone in old-fashioned garb, just to be a jackass.

His reply was waiting for me on the kitchen table the following morning.

Dear Cassie,

Not . . . exactly Jane Austen, no.

Also, is that meant to be a picture of me?

FJF

Frederick,

Not exactly Jane Austen, eh? Intriguing. Well in either case, thank you for trying to call me by my first name.

And yes, that’s supposed to be a picture of you. Don’t you see the resemblance?? Tall, stick-figure arms and legs, surly expression, clothes straight from the set of Downton Abbey?

Cassie

Dear Miss Greenberg Cassie,

Oh, yes. I suppose I do see SOME resemblance. Though I do think my actual hair looks much better than it does on the bald little man you’ve drawn here. Don’t you?

(What is Downton Abbey?)

FJF

Frederick,

Downton Abbey is an English TV show. I think it’s set about a hundred years ago? Something like that. Anyway, it’s not really my thing, but my mom and all her friends love it. Also, you dress just like Cousin Matthew, one of the characters.

Oh, and by the way—you got a few packages this morning. I stacked them on the table for you—right beside your Regency romance novels. (You’ve been getting a lot of packages lately, actually. I know they’re not addressed to me, so I’m not examining them too closely, but I have to admit—I am INTRIGUED. They’re so weird???)

(Also, Regency romance novels, huh? I haven’t read many of them myself, my guilty pleasures trend more towards trash television, but—I definitely approve.)

Cassie

Dear Cassie,

Cousin Matthew, you say? Interesting. (Is he bald, too?)

Thank you for handling the packages for me. You are correct; they are strange. Hopefully there will not be any more of them.

I am glad you approve of my reading selections. I do not care much for the focus on romance, but I find reading stories set in the early nineteenth century comforting. I guess you could say they remind me of home.

FJF

I reread his most recent note, as amused by his defense of his Regency romances as I was disappointed in his lack of a more concrete explanation for the packages he’d been getting.

Because those packages . . .

Well.

They were truly something else.

He’d gotten six of them since I’d moved in. They all had the same return address—the sender was an E.J., from New York—written in an ornate, flowery cursive that reminded me a lot of Frederick’s pretty handwriting but for the fact that it was always written in blood-red ink.

The packages came in different sizes and shapes, each wrapped in a hideous floral wrapping paper that reminded me of the decor in my grandmother’s Florida condo. Some of the packages emitted strange smells. One of them appeared to have smoke coming out of it. I swore I could hear actual hissing coming from another.

Those had to be optical illusions, I decided. There was no way the mail would deliver anything that was actually on fire. Or living snakes.

Even though those packages were addressed to Frederick, not me—and even though their contents were patently none of my business—since he hadn’t given me clarification in his notes I decided I’d ask him about them the next time we were in the same room together.

Whenever that might be.

“You’ve had a good run,” I murmured apologetically to the painting of the hunting party in my bedroom.

I felt a little bad that I was taking it down and replacing it with my own art. It wasn’t the painting’s fault it was hideous; someone, somewhere, had put a lot of effort into making it. It also looked seriously old, making me wonder if it was what Frederick had meant when he’d referred to family heirlooms.

Either way, this was my bedroom now, and that painting was nightmare fuel.

I gingerly lifted it from the wall. It must have hung there for years, because the paint on the wall behind it was half a shade darker than the matte cream covering the rest of the bedroom.

I picked up the first of the three small canvases I was about to hang in Ye Olde Hunting Party’s place, smiling as I remembered how fun the week I’d made them had been. We’d been on vacation in Saugatuck, and Sam had teased me for spending so much of our beach vacation combing the beach for trash—but then, he’d never understand how it made me feel to take what other people threw away and turn it into art that would outlast us all.

I didn’t have a big important lawyer job like he did—but through my art, I made a statement. And left my own mark on the world.

I grabbed my hammer, then dragged the antique desk chair that had to be at least as old as the city of Chicago to the spot where I planned to hang my series. I climbed on it and started banging a nail into the wall.

After a few loud whacks with the hammer, I froze, realizing what I was doing.

It was five o’clock.

I was still a little fuzzy on Frederick’s exact schedule. Would he still be asleep?

If he was, hammering into the wall would probably wake him up.

If it did, he would likely leave his room and come lecture me about waking him.

I still didn’t think I was ready to see him again.

I gingerly set the hammer down on the floor, hoping against hope that Frederick hadn’t heard it.

But a few minutes later his bedroom door creaked open.

Fuck.

“Good evening, Miss Greenberg.”

Frederick’s voice was deeper than usual, and thick with sleep. I turned slowly to face him, bracing myself for a lecture on the importance of keeping quiet when one’s roommate was trying to rest.

His voice and disheveled hair implied he’d just woken up, but he was fully dressed in a three-piece, pinstriped brown suit and a pageboy hat. He looked like an English professor from the set of a period film, off to give a lecture on the symbolism found within Jane Eyre or something—not like someone who’d just rolled out of bed.

Not that I’d ever had an English professor who looked like that.

He didn’t launch into a lecture about Jane Eyre, though. He also wasn’t staring at me the way I was staring at him. He was frowning at my Lake Michigan shoreline canvases where they sat propped against my bedroom wall, as though confused about what he was looking at. His arms were folded tightly across his broad chest as he scowled, which absolutely did not make me think about what his bare chest had looked like the other night. Or the way it ostensibly looked right that very second beneath his too-formal clothing.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” I offered, to steer my thoughts towards safer ground.

He waved a hand. “It’s fine. But . . . what are those?” He nodded in the direction of my landscapes.

“You mean my landscapes?”

“Is . . . is that what those are?” His eyebrows rose. He stepped into the room, as though to take a closer look. “You made these?”

He sounded and looked at least as confused as my grandfather did whenever he saw one of my pieces—but he didn’t seem horrified. He also didn’t look or sound particularly complimentary or blown away by my creations, though. Which was valid. I’d long since made peace with the fact that my art wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

But this series was probably the most broadly accessible work I’d done in years. For starters, it was obvious these were lakeside images. If I was being honest, after the compliments he’d paid me on my silly little sketches on our notes to each other, part of me had hoped he’d immediately understand—and appreciate—what I was trying to do with these canvases.

“I made them, yes,” I confirmed. I tried to sound confident, though my voice was shaking a little.

“And you mean to hang them up?” Frederick eyed the nail I’d just hammered into the wall. “In here?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” he asked, striding towards my canvases. He looked down at them, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his trousers. He seemed utterly bewildered. “I grant you that the painting hanging here previously was dated, but—”

“It was hideous.”

He glanced at me, the right corner of his mouth ticking up in amusement. “That is fair. It was my mother’s, not mine. But Cassie . . .”

He stood up, shaking his head.

“Yeah?”

“It’s trash,” he said, emphasizing the final word.

My hackles rose. I’d heard this sort of criticism before and was an expert at just brushing it off. But after the excitement of learning about the art exhibition a few hours ago, I wasn’t in the mood.

“My art is not trash,” I said, defiantly.

Frederick looked at the canvas again, really peering at it this time—as though trying to decide whether he’d been right in his initial assessment.

He shook his head again. “But . . . but it is trash.”

A beat passed before I realized he meant that literally.

“Oh.” I cringed inwardly. “I mean—yes, okay. It’s made of trash.”

He raised an amused eyebrow. “I believe that’s what I just said.”

It wasn’t exactly what he’d just said, but I let it drop. “Yes,” I said, feeling my face grow warm with embarrassment over the misunderstanding. “You did.”

“I admit I don’t understand.” He shook his head. “Based on the parts of this . . . this scene that are not covered in refuse, and the drawings you have done for me, I know you are an artist with talent. Maybe I have old-fashioned views, but I simply don’t understand why you would spend your time creating something like this.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The sort of art I am used to seeing is more . . .”

I raised an eyebrow. “More what?”

He bit his lip, as though searching for the right words. “Pleasant to look at, I suppose.” He shrugged again. “Scenes from nature. Little girls wearing frilly white dresses and playing beside riverbanks. Bowls of fruit.”

“This piece shows a beach and a lake,” I pointed out. “It’s a scene from nature.”

“But it’s covered in refuse.”

I nodded. “My art combines objects I find with images I paint. Sometimes what I find and incorporate is literal trash. But I also feel that my art is more than just trash. It’s meaningful. These pieces aren’t just flat, lifeless images on canvas. They say something.”

“Oh.” He came even closer to the landscapes, kneeling so he could peer at them up close. “And what does your art . . . say?”

His nose was just a few inches from an old McDonald’s Quarter Pounder wrapper I’d laminated to the canvas so it looked like it was rising out of Lake Michigan. I’d meant for it to represent capitalism’s crushing stranglehold on the natural world. Also, it just sort of looked cool.

But I decided to give him a broader explanation.

“I want to create something memorable with my art. Something lasting. I want to give people who see my works an experience that won’t fade away. Something that will stay with them long after they see it.”

He frowned skeptically. “And you accomplish that by displaying ephemera others throw away?”

I was about to counter by telling him that even the prettiest painting in the fanciest museum faded from memory once the patrons went home. That by using things other people throw away, I took the ephemeral and make it permanent in a way no pretty watercolor ever could.

But then, all at once, I noticed how close we were standing. During our conversation he must have crept closer by increments until now there were just a scant few inches of space separating us. My mind flashed back to the other night—my wet hair dripping onto my bare shoulders, his dark brown eyes wide with surprise as he looked everywhere but at me.

He was looking at me now, though. And his eyes were everywhere. They trailed slowly down the slope of my neck, lingering at the small, jagged scar beneath my ear I got as a small child before moving on to the gentle curve of my shoulders. I wasn’t wearing anything particularly nice, just a thin T-shirt and an old pair of jeans—but his gaze was heated all the same. It made me feel dizzy and warm in a way I didn’t have words for.

I wanted to move closer to him, so I did, not bothering to stop and wonder if that was a good idea. But then a moment later he straightened, as if returning to himself, and then quickly stepped back and away from me. He stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers once again, staring down at his shiny wing-tipped shoes as though they were the most fascinating things in the world.

The moment was over. But somehow, it felt like something between us had changed. There was a sweet, electric anticipation in the air that hadn’t been there before. I wasn’t sure I had words for what it was. All I knew was that I wanted to feel it again. I wanted to feel him. The hard planes of his broad chest beneath my hands. His lips, his breath, hot and sweet against my neck.

I shook my head to try and clear it. This was a man I hardly knew, I reminded myself. This was my roommate.

It didn’t work.

“I . . . can try and explain my art to you,” I offered, just for something to say. In my head, Sam’s voice shouted, Bad idea, bad idea, like a warning klaxon. I ignored it. Quite frankly, in that moment I didn’t care if it was a bad idea. My heart was racing, blood pumping hot inside my veins. “If you want.”

He hesitated, still not looking at me. He shook his head.

“That is probably not a good idea,” he said, echoing the voice in my head. “I suspect I am a rather hopeless case when it comes to modern art.”

I could sense that he was trying to put some distance between us after . . . well, after whatever it was that had just happened. I didn’t want him to.

“I’ve never met anyone who’s a hopeless case.”

His eyes fluttered closed.

“You have never met anyone like me, Miss Greenberg,” he said, sounding almost sad about it, before turning and walking out of my bedroom.

It was another few minutes before I was able to collect myself enough to think straight. When I did, I sank to my bed, burying my face in my hands.

Sam’s words of warning from the other day suddenly came back to me: Living with someone you think is hot never ends well. You either end up sleeping with them—which is a huge mistake, nine times out of ten—or else you drive yourself nuts because you want to sleep with them.

I groaned.

Well, it looked like Sam had been right.

What the hell was I going to do?