I picked up my phone and texted my family that I had arrived and all was well. I glanced at the envelope on the counter, thinking maybe I should read the letter now. The neat script on the front read Tenant. As a graphic designer who had a special place in my heart for fonts and the feelings they could evoke, like the global loathing for Comic Sans, I tended to look at people’s handwriting with the same critical eye. Mr. Daire’s handwriting was very square, very neat, and almost painfully precise. It’s not that it spooked me exactly, but it certainly didn’t give off a happy, carefree vibe. No, it was more like a “drop and give me twenty” feeling of military precision.

I decided to ignore it just like I would a spider in the pantry, because maybe it was a good little bug eater or maybe it would bite me. Yeah, I could absolutely wait until tomorrow to open that letter and find out what I was dealing with because, judging by the handwriting, I was guessing my landlord was the bitey sort.

Nick

3

“You know what you should do, Nick?” Jackson Popov asked.

“Nothing good has ever been said after that opening question,” I replied, taking a quick inhale as I lowered the 275-pound barbell to my chest. I could feel the bunch and clench of my pecs and biceps, and it grounded me. With a soft grunt, I dug deep into my core and lifted the weight to a full extension while exhaling.

“I’m going to tell you anyway, you ingrate,” Jackson said. He held his hands wide as he stood at my head, getting ready to grab the bar if I maxed out.

Jackson was a big burly man, a walking wall of muscle mass, with a shaved head, pale gray eyes, and an improbable goatee that came to a wicked point, like he was the villain in a silent film.

He was the youngest of many siblings—I could never keep track of them all—which had crafted him into a person who talked too much, laughed too loud, and was stubborn as fuck. I supposed he had to be all those things to get any attention being raised in such a crowd. I didn’t particularly like him, but he’d come into my life after my world imploded, and I hadn’t had the wherewithal to get rid of him, especially since I’d gone through four physical therapists before he showed up. It seemed some of them found me difficult to work with while I found them to be incompetent. Whatever.

I racked the weights on their holder and used the barbell to pull myself up to a seated position. Jackson tossed me a towel, and I wiped off the sweat that was pouring down my face and neck.