“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” Luke interrupts. I guess bro code is finally kicking in. “Boyd, the game is about to start. You gonna stay and watch?”
I nod. “Sounds good,” I agree, but I’m a little bit distracted. Why didn’t Chloe ask me to do career day at her school? She asked Sophie’s husband but not me? Does she only think of me as some kind of friend with benefits? Maybe all she’s interested in with me is sex?
Or maybe she just doesn’t want to take that leap into real. At least not with me. I remind myself that she’s only twenty-two and wonder if I’m expecting too much from her. I sure as hell didn’t want to be tied down to anyone when I was twenty-two.
I’ll wait, if I have to. But I need some confirmation from her that she wants what I want.
I want Chloe tied to me.
Twenty–Two
Boyd I text her from the lobby and tell her I’m on my way up. Having a badge is a really convenient way to get past building security. Not that this place has much.
She’s standing in the open doorway of her apartment when I get off the elevator, hand on her hip with her head cocked to the side in question. “I brought donuts,” I offer by way of explanation for showing up unannounced.
“Did you need a favor or something?” she asks, taking the box from my hands and setting it on the tiny round dining table just inside the door of her apartment. Not a promising start, but she does allow me to follow her inside.
“I just brought you a favor,” I comment then eye her. “Do you own any pants?” She’s wearing another pair of those godforsaken leggings.
“What are you talking about? I’m wearing pants right now. And how does this count as a favor when I didn’t ask for it? It shouldn’t count towards my favor tally if I didn’t make the official request.” She pops open the donut box and peeks inside. “You’re like the worst genie ever.”
“I know. But your favors are piling up. I gotta work them off. And those aren’t pants.”
“Leggings are pants. They’re very popular.”
“What the hell is even on them?” I step closer and eye her ass, focusing on the print. Purely for research purposes. “Are those black cats?”
“They’re my seasonal leggings!” she retorts and selects a donut as I walk past her into the tiny aisle of a kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee.
“Oh. Did you want something to drink? Let me get that for you,” she says sarcastically before biting into a donut.
I ignore her tone. “No, no. I’ve got it, thank you.” I take the mug and pass by her, taking a seat on her couch. She’s arranged some books on the shelves along with a couple of small knick knacks. “Bookshelf looks good.”
She looks at me sitting on her sofa, confusion crossing her face. “Okay, you’re staying,” she says, but I think it’s more to herself than to me. “Do you want a donut?”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay.” She exhales and walks closer to me then realizes she either needs to sit next to me on a two-person sofa or sit on her bed. She finds a third option and sits on the trunk coffee table between us instead, one leg on the floor and one bent in front of her on the trunk. “So,” she says, her eyes running over me. They pause on my lips and then she takes another bite of the donut in her hand.
“So,” I reply back.
“Are you here to do my laundry?” she asks.
I laugh. “No, but we can bring it and do it after.”
“After what?” she asks, eyeing me with interest, her guard up.
“There’s a flea market today over in Society Hill. I thought we could go.”
Her eyes widen the tiniest bit and her foot bounces a couple of times against the hardwood floor.
“A flea market?” she questions.
“Just like a garage sale. But outside. In a park.”
“I, um,” she stammers. “I know what a flea market is.”
I know she knows what a flea market is. And I know she’s waiting for me to tell her this is a favor. That I have a sudden need to find an ugly old painting or a vintage magic eight-ball and that I need her to help me do it. But I don’t. Because I need her to meet me on this. I need her to start thinking about us as more than whatever it is she does. So I remain silent and keep my eyes steady on her. And wait.
“Um, yeah. Okay,” she agrees.
“Okay,” I say casually.
“I’ll grab my stuff,” she says, rising. “And don’t think I’m not bringing my laundry.”
***
We stop at my place to drop my car and start a load of her laundry then walk to the flea market. It’s every bit as hellish as one would expect. The flea market, not the walk. The walk is great. The flea market is a giant outdoor garage sale. Filled with used junk. Other people’s used junk.
Or, from Chloe’s viewpoint: treasures.
Okay.
But Chloe loves it, and I love her so I’m willing to do what it takes to spend the day with her.
Old black-and-white pictures of other people’s relatives. Used hats. A vintage mail box, rotary phones. One guy is selling fresh fruit and vegetables, which makes no sense to me at all, but Chloe stops and buys a couple of apples.
A short while later she pauses in front of a box of old house numbers. It’s on the pavement in a cardboard box that looks ready to give out from the weight of the items inside of it, but that doesn’t deter Chloe from stooping down and digging through, pulling out a two and setting it on the brick sidewalk beside her before digging back in.
This makes less sense than the fresh green beans located next to the recycled tires turned into planters we passed ten tables ago, but I’m game.
“What are we looking for?” I ask, squatting down next to her. She pulls out a zero and places it next to the two. They’re completely mismatched. Different fonts, sizes, materials and age. But she seems happy with her search.
“A four,” she replies. The numbers in the box rattle as she rummages until they fall silent as she plucks out a four in victory. “There.” She places it on the pavers in front of the two and the zero.
I nod. “Sounds good,” I agree, but I’m a little bit distracted. Why didn’t Chloe ask me to do career day at her school? She asked Sophie’s husband but not me? Does she only think of me as some kind of friend with benefits? Maybe all she’s interested in with me is sex?
Or maybe she just doesn’t want to take that leap into real. At least not with me. I remind myself that she’s only twenty-two and wonder if I’m expecting too much from her. I sure as hell didn’t want to be tied down to anyone when I was twenty-two.
I’ll wait, if I have to. But I need some confirmation from her that she wants what I want.
I want Chloe tied to me.
Twenty–Two
Boyd I text her from the lobby and tell her I’m on my way up. Having a badge is a really convenient way to get past building security. Not that this place has much.
She’s standing in the open doorway of her apartment when I get off the elevator, hand on her hip with her head cocked to the side in question. “I brought donuts,” I offer by way of explanation for showing up unannounced.
“Did you need a favor or something?” she asks, taking the box from my hands and setting it on the tiny round dining table just inside the door of her apartment. Not a promising start, but she does allow me to follow her inside.
“I just brought you a favor,” I comment then eye her. “Do you own any pants?” She’s wearing another pair of those godforsaken leggings.
“What are you talking about? I’m wearing pants right now. And how does this count as a favor when I didn’t ask for it? It shouldn’t count towards my favor tally if I didn’t make the official request.” She pops open the donut box and peeks inside. “You’re like the worst genie ever.”
“I know. But your favors are piling up. I gotta work them off. And those aren’t pants.”
“Leggings are pants. They’re very popular.”
“What the hell is even on them?” I step closer and eye her ass, focusing on the print. Purely for research purposes. “Are those black cats?”
“They’re my seasonal leggings!” she retorts and selects a donut as I walk past her into the tiny aisle of a kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee.
“Oh. Did you want something to drink? Let me get that for you,” she says sarcastically before biting into a donut.
I ignore her tone. “No, no. I’ve got it, thank you.” I take the mug and pass by her, taking a seat on her couch. She’s arranged some books on the shelves along with a couple of small knick knacks. “Bookshelf looks good.”
She looks at me sitting on her sofa, confusion crossing her face. “Okay, you’re staying,” she says, but I think it’s more to herself than to me. “Do you want a donut?”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay.” She exhales and walks closer to me then realizes she either needs to sit next to me on a two-person sofa or sit on her bed. She finds a third option and sits on the trunk coffee table between us instead, one leg on the floor and one bent in front of her on the trunk. “So,” she says, her eyes running over me. They pause on my lips and then she takes another bite of the donut in her hand.
“So,” I reply back.
“Are you here to do my laundry?” she asks.
I laugh. “No, but we can bring it and do it after.”
“After what?” she asks, eyeing me with interest, her guard up.
“There’s a flea market today over in Society Hill. I thought we could go.”
Her eyes widen the tiniest bit and her foot bounces a couple of times against the hardwood floor.
“A flea market?” she questions.
“Just like a garage sale. But outside. In a park.”
“I, um,” she stammers. “I know what a flea market is.”
I know she knows what a flea market is. And I know she’s waiting for me to tell her this is a favor. That I have a sudden need to find an ugly old painting or a vintage magic eight-ball and that I need her to help me do it. But I don’t. Because I need her to meet me on this. I need her to start thinking about us as more than whatever it is she does. So I remain silent and keep my eyes steady on her. And wait.
“Um, yeah. Okay,” she agrees.
“Okay,” I say casually.
“I’ll grab my stuff,” she says, rising. “And don’t think I’m not bringing my laundry.”
***
We stop at my place to drop my car and start a load of her laundry then walk to the flea market. It’s every bit as hellish as one would expect. The flea market, not the walk. The walk is great. The flea market is a giant outdoor garage sale. Filled with used junk. Other people’s used junk.
Or, from Chloe’s viewpoint: treasures.
Okay.
But Chloe loves it, and I love her so I’m willing to do what it takes to spend the day with her.
Old black-and-white pictures of other people’s relatives. Used hats. A vintage mail box, rotary phones. One guy is selling fresh fruit and vegetables, which makes no sense to me at all, but Chloe stops and buys a couple of apples.
A short while later she pauses in front of a box of old house numbers. It’s on the pavement in a cardboard box that looks ready to give out from the weight of the items inside of it, but that doesn’t deter Chloe from stooping down and digging through, pulling out a two and setting it on the brick sidewalk beside her before digging back in.
This makes less sense than the fresh green beans located next to the recycled tires turned into planters we passed ten tables ago, but I’m game.
“What are we looking for?” I ask, squatting down next to her. She pulls out a zero and places it next to the two. They’re completely mismatched. Different fonts, sizes, materials and age. But she seems happy with her search.
“A four,” she replies. The numbers in the box rattle as she rummages until they fall silent as she plucks out a four in victory. “There.” She places it on the pavers in front of the two and the zero.
