Shit, I need to get a hold of myself.
I force the air out of my lungs, closing the lid on my laptop. “Maybe another time. I should get to work.” I drain the cold dregs of my coffee and slip my laptop into my bag.
We head out onto the sidewalk together, and a few feet away there’s a guy shaking a cup with change in it. I’m guessing he must be homeless, or close to it, and it’s cold out. I haven’t seen many homeless people in the city. Compassion nudges me closer, and I stuff a $5 bill into his cup. It’s not a lot but it’s all I can part with right now.
“God bless,” he says gratefully.
I turn back to see Michael watching with interest.
“What?”
“You’re sweet. Most people would just ignore him.”
I sling my bag onto my shoulder. “Hopefully it helps. It’s not much.”
“Yeah. He’ll probably just use it for drugs or something, though.”
“You’re so cynical!”
Michael gives a light shrug. “Well, it’s true.”
“You don’t know that,” I say as we start to wander down the street. “That’s totally making an assumption based on the way he looks. It’s like, someone could look at you and say, ‘he’s just a dumb jock. He probably spends all his time in the gym and is as thick as two planks.’” I think of all the assumptions I made about Michael when I first met him and how wrong I was.
He stops walking and turns to me. “You think I look super fit?”
I blush furiously. Jesus, why did I say that?
“I didn’t say super fit,” I mumble.
“But you did suggest that I look fit.” His mouth tilts into a teasing grin.
“Ugh, whatever.” I roll my eyes and turn to walk away, more because I’m embarrassed and don’t want him to see me blush again than anything else.
“Hey, Alex.” He falls into step beside me. “Why don’t you give me some of your writing to read?”
I stop again and glance at him. He’s looking at me warmly, his eyes twinkling, a smile on his mouth. It’s like now that I’ve cracked that frowny exterior he can’t stop smiling. I’m not used to this new, friendly, smiley Michael. If I thought he was sexy before, this is something else.
“Because,” he continues, his lip twitching, “if it’s anything like your other reading material, it’s got to be good.”
“Other reading material?”
“Yeah. What was it, The Prince of Pleasure?”
Oh my God. Somehow, during the course of this perfectly pleasant conversation, I’d let myself forget about our interlude at work. I press my eyes shut in mortification, feeling heat creep up my neck. Because some of my writing is like those books, but I’m certainly not going to be telling—or showing—him any of that.
I brave a glance at him. There’s a playful light in his eyes and his mouth is cocked in a sly grin. It sends a little thrill through me and I bite my lip, trying to make sense of what’s going on here. It almost feels like he’s flirting with me, which is weird. I’m quite certain I’m imagining that. My cheeks burn under his gaze and I look away.
“No, it’s not like that. That was just… something else,” I mutter, feeling silly again. Why do I feel like this around him? He always reduces me to this blushing, mumbling mess, and I can’t stand it. “I should get to work. I’ll… see you around.” I spin on my heel and stalk off, pretending I don’t hear him calling out after me.
16
The fluorescent lights flicker on as I step into the laundry room, and I smile, relieved to be alone with my dirty laundry.
I guess this isn’t how one is supposed to spend their evening on Thanksgiving, but I haven’t completely opted out of the whole American holiday thing. I wrote a blog post a few days ago about dealing with invasive questions from your family over Thanksgiving dinner (you know the kind: “when are you going to settle down with a nice guy?” and “you’re not getting any younger, don’t you want children?”) and I watched the parade on TV.
But, you know. When you’re running out of clean clothes to wear—so much so that you have to wear your pink bunny pajama pants to the laundry room—it becomes a bit of an emergency.
I place my basket on top of a machine. Even though it’s a cold and dank room, it still has that nice smell of laundry powder and dryer sheets, which is oddly comforting. But—bugger. I’ve forgotten my coins.
I dash back up to the apartment and when I return, I’m surprised to see Henry, clad in dinosaur pajamas, glancing around at the machines.
“Hi, Henry.” I wander over to my machine, pretending not to be on the lookout for Michael. I haven’t seen him since we shared a coffee at Beanie almost two weeks ago, and I’ve been avoiding the hall in case I run into him. I felt so awkward after the last time.
Of course, it would be just my bloody luck that he’d come down here the one time I’m doing laundry in my pajama bottoms.
Henry turns to me, clutching a towel in his hand. Concern is etched on his cute face.
“You okay?” I ask.
He holds up the towel. “I need to wash this, real quick.” His voice trembles with panic.
“Okay. Do you want some help?”
He glances around at the machines before looking back at me. “Yes, please.”
I take the towel. It’s cream colored and covered in some kind of tomato-based sauce. “What happened?”
“Promise you won’t tell my dad?”
I nod.
“I dropped a jar of sauce and I didn’t know how else to clean it up, so I used this.”
“Where is your dad?”
Henry’s eyes are wide with worry. “He’s in the shower but he’ll be out real soon.”
I glance down at the towel, forcing myself
