I know I’m alone before I open my eyes.
There’s a particular feeling a room has when it’s empty. And now that I’ve experienced Nero in my apartment a few times, I can hardly believe I didn’t feel his presence that night I left the door open for him.
Rolling onto my stomach, I press my nose into the mattress, inhaling. But all I can smell is the leftover scent of my rose body wash. If he’s gonna shower here on a regular basis, I need him to bring his own soap. There’s something about the way Nero leaves no trace of himself behind that makes me feel a little crazy. Makes that tiny voice in my head question whether he does really exist. That maybe I’m still a virgin, and I’m losing my mind, not falling in love.
I scoff out loud and shove myself up and out of bed.
Falling in love.
No, that would be insanity.
I can’t possibly be falling in love with him already.
Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I shuffle a path to the coffee maker, only half paying attention as I measure out the water and grounds.
It’s all just so weird. Because I feel like I understand Nero, even if I don’t understand the details of his life. I mean, he basically admitted to being a mobster last night. But does that mean the same thing to everyone? Like is he a part of the actual mob? Like the stuff in movies. With guns and rivals and cops.
Considering he talked about his enemies and there were cop cars searching for him the night we met…
While the coffee trickles into the pot, I unlock my phone, open my browser, and type Nero Security into the search. He said it was the name of his company, and sure enough my screen populates with results for Nero’s Security Company.
The second link from the top is the company’s official website, so I click on it.
I’ve never looked at a security website before, but this seems pretty standard. And I’m not surprised that the color scheme is black with shades of gray. But when I click on the About Us tab, there are no photos of any of the personnel, and no details about the owner. It just talks about the basics. Founded fifteen years ago. Offices in eight states. Top awards for industry stuff I don’t understand.
I go back to the browser and type in Owner of Nero’s Security Company Minneapolis and some new results pop up on my screen. I click on one that sounds like a news site and see my first photo of Nero. He’s in a suit, a serious expression on his face, standing in front of a brick building, shaking hands with… the mayor.
Intrigued, I quickly scan the article.
Finalized a contract with The City of Minneapolis to use Nero’s Security Company on all new government building projects, over the next five years… Some speculation on the relationship between Minneapolis Mayor Oscar Devon and Nero, the owner of Nero’s…
My eyes fly across the rest of the words, but there’s never any mention of Nero’s last name.
I search more variations, but nothing I type in gets me any more information on Nero the man.
When the aroma of coffee finally permeates my brain, I look down to see that the pot is finished brewing and wonder just how long I’ve been standing here.
Tucking my phone into the shallow pocket of my pajama pants, I open the cupboard above the coffee maker and grab my favorite mug. It’s a heavy ceramic, painted yellow, and from Grand Canyon National Park.
I’ve never been. I’ve never even left the Midwest. But I found it at a Goodwill a few years ago and it brings me a strange amount of joy. Because someone went there, and even if the mug is mine now, I feel like it holds the memories of the original owner. Like if I close my eyes real tight, I can pretend that I’m the type of person that takes vacations too.
Some day.
You will never worry about money. Not for me. And not for you.
Nero’s words from last night skitter around my thoughts.
I might be naïve, but I’m not so foolish as to think he really meant that.
The steam from my mug makes my gaze hazy as I take my first sip.
Nero said a lot of things last night, and I believe he told me the truth––about him, about his life–– but I could feel his hesitation. And whether that hesitancy was really for my safety, or for some other reason, the fact remains, he’s not here this morning.
Sighing, I turn toward the living room and decide to spend my day off as I usually would––on the couch, binge watching baking shows.
I’ve made it two steps, to the edge of the little island, when a rectangle of black catches my attention.
Sitting halfway between the counter and the front door is an envelope.
“How?”
Setting my mug down, I crouch and pick it up.
It’s heavy. And the texture tells me it’s made of a thick card stock. It’s not the size of a normal envelope. It’s shorter and fatter.
I glance around, like maybe someone will pop up and say hey, that’s mine.
There’s nothing written on the front, and flipping it over, I see it’s not sealed.
My teeth bite down on my lip as I debate opening it. But it’s in my apartment, and I can’t picture Nero dropping it on accident.
My eyes dart back to the countertop. Maybe he left it for me, but when he shut the door, it slid off.
Maybe?
Exasperated with myself, I groan, “Oh my god, just open it!”
My fingers open the flap and pull out a single piece of paper, made of the same heavy black stock.
There’s a small symbol embossed in gold at the bottom of the page that looks sorta like the letter A inside of the sun.
I blink at it, not understanding, then my fingers register raised letters on the other side of the paper.
When I turn it over, my mouth slips open.
It’s an invitation. A fancy as hell invitation to a birthday party. For Nero. Tonight.
