5. Donovan
FIVE
DONOVAN
I always sleep badly the first night in a strange location. But after a shitty night’s sleep at the motel, I sink into the comfortable guest bed at the front of Jack and Pete’s house and fall into a rare deep sleep, waking up to birdsong outside my window at the civilized hour of eight o’clock. I’m weirdly rested. I wasn’t woken up by emergency sirens or upstairs neighbors or slamming doors.
Huh.
Maybe there’s something to small-town life after all.
I take a quick shower before checking the weather on my phone. We’re due for another warm, sunny day. Aside from the lightweight suit I wore to the wedding, I packed mostly jeans and T-shirts. I did remember my swim trunks at the last minute, but maybe I should have brought more shorts. I throw on the only pair I have, army green ones that accentuate the olive tones of my skin, and tug a plain dark gray shirt over my head.
I wonder how Beck’s doing. I assume he got up with Cleo because I haven’t heard anything to the contrary, but I steel myself to find a hungry dog and a still-hungover man when I get downstairs.
I’m still adjusting to the idea of spending the next two months living with Beck. We’ve gotten along so far, but then there’s the pesky attraction that pops up at seemingly random times. Like last night—we’d gotten through a picnic-style dinner of wedding leftovers. Then while we walked Cleo in this Stepford-perfect neighborhood, Beck stopped to admire the most rundown house on the block and I wanted…well, I’m not sure what, exactly. I’m used to wanting sex—and yesterday morning, that’s exactly what I was picturing with the guy.
But twenty-four hours later, Beck isn’t just a random guy. He’s my roommate. And that means it doesn’t matter what I want, even if I could figure it out. Roommates are a hard no. I’m going to keep things purely friendly for the next two months. Easy as pie.
I grab my baseball cap, sunglasses, phone, and wallet, and carry my shoes downstairs, enjoying the novelty of bare feet on the cool hardwood floors. I rarely go barefoot in the city, even in my own apartment.
My plan for the day, such as it is, is to take Pete’s car into town for breakfast and a trip to the grocery store. Maybe Beck wants to add a few things to the list, or even come with me.
Provided he’s awake and functional.
Picturing Beck rumpled and sleepy, I’m stunned by the sight that meets me in the kitchen when I walk in, Beck at the big six-burner stove with his back to me, working on something emitting an appetizing smell. He’s gotten the shorts memo, too, and is wearing dark blue ones that hug his rear and stop just beneath the full globes of his ass, showing off pale, lightly muscled legs that move in time to the strains of classical music coming from the built-in wall speakers. He has on a loose sky-blue tank top that exposes bony shoulders. The back of his neck is bare, and I’m hit with an unexpected desire to run my nose along the shorn hair there, to find out what he smells like and how soft his skin is.
No. Friendly thoughts only.
“What’s all this?”
Beck whirls around holding a spatula like a weapon. “Oh, you startled me.” He leans over and hits a button on his phone. The music stops.
I can differentiate scents now, something sweet and cinnamon in the pan on the stove and the welcome bitter aroma of coffee coming from a machine on the counter by the window.
“You’re cooking?”
“I like to cook,” Beck says, smiling. “Didn’t I mention that before? And bake. And they might have a Nancy Meyers-esque kitchen, but Jack and Pete barely have the basics, so I’m definitely going to the store today. I started a list if you want to add anything. Oh, and I got the coffee machine figured out. Help yourself. Do you like cinnamon? I wanted to make waffles, but I didn’t have the right ingredients, so this is just French toast with my own little twist. It’s almost ready. They do have real maple syrup at least, the brutes.”
I stare at Beck until I’m sure the flow of words has come to a stop. “So you’re feeling better,” I say.
Beck laughs. “So much better. The bed down here is amazing. Cleo and I got up around six. I am a new man.”
“Six?” I feel vaguely guilty for getting up late, even though eight is barely sleeping in by my usual standards. I glance at Cleo, who’s gnawing on some kind of complicated dog toy in her bed. “Thanks.”
“No problem. She’s an angel. But I think she needs to go out again. Maybe you could take her while I get the food on the table. Scrambled eggs okay?”
I’m still slightly baffled by this new energetically domestic Beck. But I’m not going to turn down a home-cooked breakfast, especially one that smells this good.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” I slip on my shoes and open the French door that leads from the kitchen to the patio and the fenced-in backyard beyond. Cleo automatically trots to the door at the sound, and the two of us go outside. She jogs around the big lawn—they have two acres, Pete told me once, about an acre for the house, garage, and the yard, a rectangle of lawn abutting the generous stone patio, with the fenced-in pool off to the side. The other acre is deciduous woods that surround the house on three sides, shielding it from the neighbors, at least during the leafy months.
Pete’s done well for himself. I’m not exactly jealous. But I am a little surprised at how good it feels to be here, pulling fresh air into my lungs, the only sounds the snuffling of Cleo in the grass as she locates a good spot to do her morning business and the ambient noise of birds and the occasional car passing by on Wild Rose Lane. I have the day ahead of me to do whatever I want, starting with breakfast waiting inside. I shake off the feeling that things are too good to be true.
Cleo squats and I chuckle. That’s the reality check I need. It’s a beautiful morning, but there’s still shit to pick up. I grab the scooper Pete showed me yesterday and take care of the mess.
I throw a tennis ball a couple of times for Cleo, but she seems to lose interest just when I fear I might pass out if I don’t get an infusion of calories. She follows me inside without a fuss and I wash my hands at the big white porcelain kitchen sink.
“Perfect timing,” Beck says sunnily as he emerges from the walk-in pantry with a glass jar of dark brown liquid. Maple syrup. Probably from some tiny local farm.
There are two places set at the island, complete with two plates filled with fluffy-looking scrambled eggs, golden French toast, and the last of the fruit from the wedding.
“No bacon, but I put it on the list,” Beck says. “You do like bacon, don’t you?”
“Do I look like someone who doesn’t like bacon?”
“I don’t know; aren’t actors all healthy and stuff?” Beck asks as he takes the right-hand seat.
I have a sip of the coffee Beck already poured for me and take the other tall, dark blue leather barstool. “Excellent coffee.”
“It took me a second to figure out the machine, but glad you like it.”
“And I do try to keep in shape,” I say, picking up my fork. “But bacon is a basic human necessity. Though I usually go for turkey bacon if I have a choice.”
“You did order bacon for me yesterday,” Beck muses. “You probably wouldn’t have done that if you were vegan or something.”
“Not vegan. Though I do like vegetables.”
“Vegetables I can get behind. You want anything in particular?” Beck nods at the pad of paper on the other side of the island and I drag it toward me while I eat. The French toast is crispy-soft and perfumed with vanilla, I think, while the eggs are light and perfectly salted. I try not to inhale them as I read Beck’s list, printed in neat block letters, a far cry from my own hasty scribble.
“Besides the bacon, there’s no food on this list.”
“What are you talking about?” Beck pours a generous amount of syrup on his French toast.
“Baking powder, lemon extract, ground cloves, almond flour—what’s AP flour?”
“All purpose,” Beck says. “I take it you aren’t a baker. Those are all ingredients.”
“Ingredients aren’t food,” I say, sticking to my guns.
“You mix them together, heat them up, and then you get food,” Beck explains, a smile in his voice. “Trust me. What kind of cookies do you like?”
“Cookies?”
“Cookies are my favorite thing to bake.”
“Oh. Well.” I try to remember the last time I ate a cookie. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t eat a lot of cookies. Oreos are pretty good.”
“Oreos are very good,” Beck agrees. “But I can’t make an Oreo. Didn’t your mom bake?”
“My mom can’t boil water,” I say, “but I love her, anyway.” I’m struck by a sudden memory—opening a box at Christmastime from my Aunt Sharleen. “My aunt used to send us fudge and some kind of spicy cookie at the holidays. Those were pretty good. She died a couple of years ago. I haven’t thought about those in a long time.”
“Like a gingerbread cookie?” Beck asks, leaning closer, his face lighting up. “Or more of a molasses?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Was it cut out in a shape or was it round, like your typical chocolate chip cookie?”
I close my eyes and think back. My parents were always busy with their full-time jobs. Christmas was one of the few times they were off work. The holiday was usually a bit of a rushed affair, but cozy. We’d all sprawl on the living room rug, watching movies as we snacked on those delicious cookies. I open my eyes and Beck’s closer than I thought, his clear light blue eyes trained intently on my face. He has a small mole at the edge of one eyebrow that lends him a nice asymmetry. I swallow. “Round. They definitely had cinnamon in them, but other flavors, too. Don’t ask me what they were.”
“Okay.” His gaze seems to drop to my mouth for a split second before he turns his attention back to his plate. “That gives me something to go on.” He grabs a pen and adds a few more items to the list.
I lean over to see he added cardamom, nutmeg, allspice. And Oreos.
I ignore the warm feeling flooding my chest and finish my coffee.
“I had planned to go to the store, too,” I say. “Why don’t we go together?”
“Okay,” Beck says. “What else is on the agenda, Mr. Playwright? You going to write today?”
I groan. “And we were getting along so well.”
Beck waves a hand. “Forget I asked. None of my business. Just tell me if you want dinner here tonight. I might as well cook for two.”
“You sure you don’t mind?”
“Nope. Especially not if you take dish duty.”
“Seems like a fair enough trade.” I think about the rest of the summer stretching ahead. “And what about the morning shift with Cleo? I’m not much of a morning person, but you want me to do tomorrow since you got up with her today?”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Beck says, throwing a smile at the pup, who looks up as if she knows we’re talking about her. “She’s actually pretty easy.”
“You’re making me feel like a freeloader,” I say. “I’ve got to pull my weight, or Pete will find some way to make me regret it.”
“How about I do mornings and you do evenings? And if one of us has something come up, we can trade.”
“Deal.”
We finish our breakfasts quickly and I clear the dishes into the dishwasher while Beck ducks into his room off the kitchen and emerges a couple of minutes later dressed in a short-sleeved white button-down embroidered with tiny pink flamingos, holding his Ray-Bans. We decide to leave Cleo behind while we go shopping, since Pete said she doesn’t like car rides.
I go upstairs to brush my teeth. When I come back down, Beck’s arms are full of canvas shopping totes.
“You got the list?” I ask.
“Got it. You want to drive?”
I hesitate. “I can, if you want me to.”
Beck looks confused for a moment, then the furrow between his eyebrows disappears. “Oh, you’re one of those New Yorkers who doesn’t drive.”
“I know how to drive,” I say, feeling defensive. “I have a valid license and everything. I’m just a little rusty. It kind of stresses me out.”
Beck laughs. “No worries. I love driving. I just thought you—” He stops before finishing the sentence and I have no idea what he was going to say. Before I can ask, Beck pushes the load of bags into my arms and snags his keys from the little table by the front door. “You can navigate,” Beck says, putting on his sunglasses and activating the alarm system behind us as we leave.
“Nice car,” I say once we’re on the road and I open my maps app. “Had it long?”
Beck smiles. “You don’t know anything about cars, do you?”
“So?”
“This is my baby,” Beck says. “Got her as a graduation present.”
I whistle. “Nice present.” When I graduated from NYU, my parents took me out for a steak dinner and handed me the paperwork for all the student loans I had to start paying back.
I can’t figure Beck out. I might not know anything about cars, but I know this isn’t a cheap commuter car, not with its sleek dash and powerful engine on display as we race down the back roads heading for the market. Beck is college-educated, wears decent clothes, owns expensive sunglasses, drives a sweet car. But he doesn’t have any discernible job and is a self-proclaimed couch surfer. The dissonance bugs me.
Have we established enough of a rapport that I can ask for more details? It’s not as if Beck has been shy about asking me anything that comes into his head. But I’m strangely reluctant to upset our equilibrium.
“Turn up here,” I direct, and soon we’re pulling into the parking lot of a medium-sized grocery store. Some kind of local chain, I guess. Beck grabs a cart and plops the bags in the front basket.
“Want to split up or stick together?” Beck asks.
I blink. I imagine trying to find some of the things on Beck’s list by myself and shake my head. “Let’s stick together.”
Beck grins and pushes the cart through the automatic doors. “Good choice.”