Chapter 14
14
It’s the man from the train , I think wildly, pressing my back against the dully thudding washing machine. My heart is ramming into my ribs like a city bus with a drunk driver behind the wheel. Shit, he followed me, how am I going to—
But then the figure emerges from the shadows, and my heart slows its panicked pace, if only slightly. It’s not the man from the train.
It’s Hot Josh.
He’s holding a massive basket absolutely overflowing with dirty laundry. Linens are piled so high he’s almost completely hidden behind the mound of fabric.
“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, tilting the basket toward me as if to indicate I mean you no harm . “And I don’t know what that washer did to tick you off, but if she shrank your favorite trousers or something, you’ve made your point and I’m sure she’s sorry.”
“You scared me to death,” I say, still not quite able to catch my breath.
“Saw that,” Hot Josh says, sheepish. He shakes his head, boyish and apologetic. “Sorry, again. You, er, just put that load in, then? Before giving her a little kick, showing her who’s boss?”
“Yeah,” I say, embarrassed anew that he saw me kick the stupid old machine. I look down and realize I’m clad in plaid from head to toe, wearing my cozy but unflattering red flannel pajamas with my clunky winter boots, and my embarrassment deepens. “Sorry, if you need the machine, it’ll be about forty-five minutes, but—”
“No, no worries,” says Hot Josh. “Not a problem. I’ll come back down in a tick.”
He turns to go, and I want him to stay. Not only because he’s attractive and funny and I somehow enjoy being around him even though I always wind up making a fool of myself...but also because I can’t take being down here alone anymore.
“Hey,” I say, emboldened by the last lingering alcohol in my system. “I can, um, text you. If you want. When I’m ready to put my load in the dryer? We could come back down together, I’ll put my clothes in the dryer, you’ll put yours in the wash, it’ll be...efficient...”
Oh God, I’m babbling.
“Oh, ah,” Josh says, looking mildly uncomfortable. “I can always do my wash tomorrow, it’s no rush, I don’t want you to have to bother with—”
“Here,” I say, shoving my phone at him. “You can just put your number in. I’ll text you when I’m ready to come back down. Seriously, it’s not a bother, it’s...it’s kind of creepy down here. I don’t actually like coming down by myself.”
Throwing in that vulnerable bit of honesty at the end makes the feminist in me wince, but Josh nods.
“Creeps me out, too,” he says easily.
Then he sets down his basket. It really does have a shocking amount of laundry in it; he must go weeks in between washes, which strikes me as odd for someone who seems so otherwise fastidious. He takes my phone, and looks puzzled.
“Battery’s dead,” he says.
“Oh, no, it’s just—off,” I say, flustered.
“Ah,” he says, nonplussed. He turns the phone on, and we stand there awkwardly for a moment as it comes to life. He hands it to me to enter my passcode; after I do that, he swiftly punches in a number. His pocket immediately buzzes.
“Calling myself. Now I’ll have your number, too.”
“Cool,” I say, taking my phone back and hardly believing my luck.
I just got Hot Josh’s number!
Sasha and Bryan are going to plotz.
“Cheers,” says Josh, picking up his basket and turning to go upstairs. Then he looks over his shoulder at me. “Coming up, then?”
“Yep—yes,” I say, putting my empty basket on top of the rumbling washer.
As I follow him upstairs, I groan inwardly. He probably thinks I’m deranged. There’s no need for me to get his number and text him. He lives across the damn hallway. I could’ve just offered to knock on his door when it was time to go downstairs and swap the loads of laundry.
Then again, either that hadn’t occurred to him, making us equally foolish, or it had...and he’d given me his phone number anyway. The tiniest seed of hope takes root in my chest, extending tentative tendrils.
Maybe he wanted me to have his number.
Maybe I really should ask him to be my date to the wedding, right now. It’s already super last-minute; the wedding is just four days away. There’s truly no time to waste.
Then again, if I ask him now, and he says no, our rendezvous in forty-five minutes to head to the basement will be supremely awkward. And this day has already done a number on my nerves.
Tomorrow , I promise myself. I’ll ask him tomorrow.