Ryker
RYKER
I’ve had a long day of practice and watching game tape in preparation for our upcoming game with Boston, so when I get home and am immediately greeted by the smell of tomato sauce and garlic, my mouth begins to water the moment I step inside.
I drop my duffel on the floor, toe off my boots, and follow the scent to the kitchen, where I find Lake sitting at the island with his laptop and an anatomy book thick enough to break your foot should you ever accidentally drop it on it.
Only the lights above the kitchen island are turned on. The rest of the apartment is dark, which makes Lake’s little oasis of light feel especially warm and welcoming.
For a week now I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s been a sort of unconscious anxiety that settled in my chest over the last few days. Not too loud or disruptive, but prominent enough to make its presence known in quieter moments.
But now, watching Lake, something settles inside me.
I go to him and stand behind him. He looks up, and I press a kiss to his forehead.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hi.”
He closes his eyes, and I crouch so I can rest my chin on his shoulder. He has so many tabs and windows open that I’m willing to bet no sane person is able to make sense of the mess.
“Dinner’s in the oven,” Lake says. “Pot roast.”
“You cooked?”
“Not even a little bit, unless you consider heating the thing cooking.”
“It smells good,” I say. Lake gets up and stretches, and I take a moment to fully enjoy the sight.
“It’s from that place down the street,” he says.
He starts to walk past me, but I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him against me. He sends me a curious smile, and I kiss him. He tastes like peanut butter and apples, and his arms circle my neck as the kiss deepens.
Our tongues tangle, both of us taking dips into the other’s mouth. I kissed him this morning, and it already feels like it’s been forever, so I take my time while Lake wraps himself around me.
The beeping of the oven timer is an unwelcome noise I’m fully determined to ignore, but Lake starts to laugh against my mouth.
“The food will burn if you keep this up.”
“I’m not that hungry anyway.”
“Yeah, well, I am,” he says with a laugh.
I tighten my grip on him, and he raises his brows at me. “Are you gonna let me turn off the oven, at least, or do we wait until we’ve burned the food? Because I’ll vote for the second option only if you promise to get the hot firemen here once the smoke detector goes off.”
I hug him for another few seconds before I let him go. He sends me an amused look and goes to turn the oven off while I open the drawer to get the plates and utensils. Five minutes later we’re sitting at the table with our food.
“How was your day?” I ask.
“Cadaver lab,” he says offhandedly, then shoves a huge forkful of food in his mouth. “Someone hadn’t eaten the whole day, so the moment they got a whiff of formaldehyde they passed out cold.”
“Or they saw the dead body.”
“There was a side profile dissection of a head,” he says. “Fascinating stuff.”
“I’m pretty sure we had a rule about dead-bodies-talk at the dinner table after that whole…” I make some kind of nonsensical gesture with my fork.
“After the fat-looks-like-wet-popcorn conversation?” Lake says innocently.
I put the fork down and send him a sour look. “Why? I was just starting to block that out after weeks of it circling around in my head.”
“I don’t know. You’re just such an easy target when it comes to grossing somebody out.”
I throw a piece of garlic bread at him. He catches it and stuffs it in his mouth with a wide grin.
He takes mercy on me after that though, and for the rest of dinner mentions of dead bodies are kept to a minimum.
We’re just cleaning up when my phone chimes. I pick it up and read the email.
“Huh,” I say once I’m done.
“What?” Lake asks.
I look up from my phone. “Mom and Dad bought a townhouse in Brooklyn ages ago. It’s been empty for years, waiting for somebody to get their shit together and deal with the hassle of renovating it. They both own half of it and neither wants to sell to the other for whatever reason. Or at least they haven’t so far. Guess they’ve decided to just sell the whole thing now. They want me to get the key to the realtor.”
“Good for them, I guess,” Lake says.
“I have no idea where those keys are,” I say. “I know I have them, but where the fuck did I put them? No idea.”
“Have you looked in the key box?”
“We have a key box?”
“I’m pretty sure every self-respecting household has a key box,” he says. “It’s where you toss everything you want to get rid of but aren’t quite sure if you should throw away.”
“So, a junk drawer.”
“In classy households we refer to it as the key box,” he says primly.
His lips twitch when his gaze meets mine.
“I’ll go and check,” he says.
He starts to walk past me, but I grab his forearm and pull him against me.
“There’s no hurry,” I say right before I kiss him again.
No hurry at all.
I haven’t been to the townhouse since my parents bought it, and seeing as that happened when I was about fourteen, I barely even remember what the place used to look like. Turns out the townhouse is a two-story, redbrick building on a quiet, tree-lined street in Brooklyn Heights.
I’m here early—way before the realtor I’m supposed to meet, at least—and since it’s cold as fuck outside, I abandon my original plan to wait outside and get this over with quickly in favor of going inside and not freezing my balls off.
The outside of the house isn’t in bad shape, but the inside looks kind of depressing. Somebody started fixing this place up sometime long ago and then stopped, so now it looks like a poorly maintained construction site.
I walk through the rooms while I wait, my footsteps echoing on the floors. Wallpaper is peeling and flakes of paint cover the linoleum floors. Yeah, depressing is definitely the right word.
Even so, the more I look around—the realtor is late, so I have plenty of time—the more I start to think this place might have potential.
I absently wonder how much my parents are asking for this place. Probably a lot, even in its current state. It’s a good neighborhood.
The real estate agent arrives twenty minutes later, all apologies. I hand over the keys and head out. On the corner of the street, I take a look back.
For whatever reason.