Cohen nods as if this makes sense, but he’s frowning.
“Why, do you date?” I ask him.
“Well, yeah. I mean, I do hookups, too, but I take girls on dates, for sure.”
I scratch the stubble on my chin. “How does that usually go?”
“You mean like…where do we go, or…”
I feel like a tool asking this. “No, I can probably figure that part out. I mean, if you know it’s not gonna be a quick hookup, then do you just keep going on the dates till you know it’s right or… Screw it. Just forget it. I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying.” There’s no sense in me asking these questions. I can’t get anything started with her, anyway. I try to walk away, but he pulls me back in.
“Look, man. Keep getting to know her. You don’t have to figure this out right away. Just keep hanging with her for now.”
I frown at him. “If you weren’t my friend, you’d be asking her out right now, wouldn’t you?”
He looks guilty.
I point my beer can at him. “And fucking Jack Massey’s already sniffing around.”
He lifts his eyebrows in concession. “I see your point. Look, I know you’ve got some personal shit going on that’s holding you back. But maybe this girl’s worth putting yourself out there for.”
I think of all the times I have lain in bed and dreamed of being a normal guy who has a real relationship with a woman…gets married and buys a house in the suburbs somewhere with a German shepherd running around like in the movies. Then I remember what happened last time I tried to have a relationship.
I shake my head. “I can’t do a relationship. I’ve got to focus on my family.”
“I get it. I know you’re putting your brother through school, and you’ve got your mom and your grandma to take care of. But it doesn’t mean you can’t like a girl or at least kiss her.”
The idea of this both gets my blood pressure going and scares the shit out of me. “Really?”
“Yeah. Otherwise you’re sailing right into the friend zone, and there’s no coming back from that. Kiss her, and that lets her know you’re interested. She still might go out with Jack Massey or some other guy who sees a new girl around here to pounce on, but at least she’ll know you’re a contender.”
A kiss. That’s not dangerous. And it’s not a relationship.
I chuckle, looking down at my beer. I set it down. “Thank you.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t do anything.”
I head toward the front door, and he follows me. “Where are you going?”
“To your house.”
16
Kylie
I’m bringing a plate in from the living room when a knock sounds at the door, and I freeze, not sure what I’m supposed to do. I creep toward it on tiptoes and glance through the peephole. It’s Brett. I breathe a sigh of relief, and my stomach starts spinning like it does when I see him.
“Hey,” I say, wishing these guys had a mirror that I could have checked myself in before answering the door.
“How’s it going?”
“About the same as Saturday.”
“I wanted to see if you could use some help.”
“Thanks, that’s really sweet, but I’ve got this.”
He scratches his chin. “Listen, can I talk to you a minute?”
“Yeah,” I say, and we walk over to the couch and sit.
“I feel really weird about last night,” he says.
I almost ask him if he means Monday morning, because I feel weirder about that oddball kiss than anything, but I just wait for him to go on.
“I should have offered you to stay longer with me if you needed to. I just wasn’t expecting your housing not to come through, and—”
“Please,” I say, cutting him off, “don’t think another thing about it. I never would have expected you to have me at your place for longer than the weekend, and I didn’t even expect that. It’s fine. I appreciate everything you’ve done—”
His lips are on mine before I can comprehend what’s happening. His fingertips brush the nape of my neck, and then they thread through my hair. My body’s reaction finally catches up with what’s happening, my chest lighting up like a million hummingbirds are flying around a sanctuary. He pulls away and meets my gaze, his eyes lazy, his lip curling up in a little smile.
He clears his throat and stands up. “I’m gonna help.” He walks into the kitchen, leaving me in a puddle on the couch. In a moment, he comes out with a trash can and picks up a bottle, tossing it in. In another life, I would tell him we should separate the plastic and aluminum for recycling, but I’m not sure my voice works at the moment. So instead, I get up and walk into the kitchen, begging the smile on my face to stop being so obnoxious.
I get a load going in the dishwasher and hand-wash the rest of the dishes. Brett squeezes by me with the trash can, and I still, wondering if he will touch me or try to kiss me again, but he just sets it down and then points to the kitchen sink cabinets, which I’m blocking. “May I?”
“Sure,” I say, shutting the dishwasher door and scooting aside. He peruses the cleaning stuff, picking up a few bottles, and then squeezes back by. I find that the desire inside me has amped up like a race-car engine, but I tell my body to chill.
Brett disappears into the back of the unit while I work in the kitchen. A while later, from the hallway, the washer buzzes and I head over to the stackable units to transfer the laundry to the dryer.
Brett comes out into the hallway. “I’m done with the bathroom.”
“Thanks,” I say, tossing underwear into the dryer.
“You’re doing their laundry?” he asks.
“Just Cohen’s. He’s paying me an extra ten bucks. He seems like a nice guy.”
“He is.”
I start the
