Chapter 7 Then
The windows are open to a muggy July night. The sun set hours ago, leaving behind a bruised blue-black sky. My third-floor apartment’s temperature is earth’s-core-molten. Or, according to my thermostat, eighty-five degrees.
I sit slumped against the refrigerator, taking in the state of the place—half-assembled IKEA bookshelves, stacks of books along the wall, too many moving boxes to count, my dog sprawled in front of my thrifted box fan.
“Well,” I tell the dog, “I probably need to suck it up and call the property manager again about fixing the AC.”
Argos lifts his head and makes one of his throaty almost-human sounds. Then he plops back down.
“Hey, now.” I stroke my hand down his head. “A voicemail counts as a call. Did the property manager text or call me back last week to confirm he’d received that voicemail? No. But I still called.”
Argos lets out another almost-human throaty noise. I reach for the fan to bring it closer, then slump sideways onto the floor beside him.
“The apartment looks like a bomb went off in it.”
Argos whines and sets his paw on my hand.
“Good point,” I tell him. “Before this evening, I’d hardly unpacked. So it might not be tidy, but at least I’ve gotten started, right?”
I pluck at my sweaty tank top plastered to my skin, my gaze wandering out the window. Across the street, two people sit on a balcony, shadowy silhouettes lit by a glowing waxing gibbous moon. I hear their laughter, the clink of silverware. Which makes me think of food. My stomach growls.
Argos lifts his head, eyes wide.
“Don’t worry, pup,” I tell him. “This is just what stomachs do when they’re cavernously empty.”
After I got off work, I came straight home, determined to actually get my apartment unpacked. With my work schedule the next few days, there is not a lot of time between now and Tuesday for all the zhuzhing I have left to do before Lauren comes over.
I told myself I’d stop once I’d tackled a few hours of unpacking. But then I got in the unpacking zone and before I knew it, five hours had passed. Now the time says it’s too late for any kind of takeout dinner. Or gelato.
I am lightheaded, overheated, and extremely hungry.
“I think,” I tell my dog, “now is when I scrounge around these boxes until I find the jar of Jif and gorge myself.”
Argos drops his head on a distinct “harumph.” Figures, the one truly human sound my dog makes is a sound of disapproval.
A buzz to my right makes me jump. In this hellscape of an apartment, whose only and most important attractive feature is its dirt-cheap rent, I am prepared for the worst—murder hornets, rabid racoons, a plague of locusts.
But it’s just my phone. I pick it up and then nearly drop it. Alex texted.
At risk of sounding like an absolute downer, is it just me or has this week been really bad?
I sigh as I type, The baddest.
Sorry it’s been rough for you, too, Ted. How you hanging in? he asks.
I glance around my apartment, then type, Hanging in as well as could be expected for someone who’s about to eat a jar of Jif for dinner. You?
Ted, he says. Not the Jif.
I’m still unpacking! And I don’t cook. What else am I supposed to eat?
Literally anything but that.
Thing is, I type, Jif has more calories than air, which is my only other option, so I think I’m going to stick with the Jif. Also, you didn’t answer my question—how are you?
Well, I was doing as well as could be expected for someone who’s about to eat his feelings in the form of a giant tub of gelato. But now I’m anxiously pacing my kitchen because you’re eating JIF for dinner.
“Alex has gelato?” I whine to Argos. “Salt in the wound.”
Ted, he says, where do you live?
In a very small, unpacked apartment that’s so hot I’m poaching in my own skin. Why?
Because I’m picking you up and feeding you. You can’t eat Jif for dinner.
My stomach flips. It’s midnight. Everything’s closed.
Not when your family owns a pizzeria and gelato shop. After-hours Luna’s is always open.
I nearly drop my phone again. I love Luna’s. That’s where Lauren and I had lunch yesterday. Are you serious?
I’m always serious about food, Ted. Let me know where to pick you up. I’m ready when you are.
Argos whines and nuzzles my elbow.
I send Alex my apartment’s address and type, How does after-hours Luna’s feel about welcoming a big, pea-brained yet adorable golden retriever?
After-hours Luna’s feels like he can sit outside the kitchen where animals belong and enjoy the night air.
Argos harumphs.
I smile as I type and then hit send. We can work with that.
“You really were hungry,” Alex says.
I come up for air from my perch on a prep table in the back of Luna’s, cradling the bowl of lasagna I’ve mostly demolished. “I really was. Thank you again. I’ll happily pay.”
Alex looks offended. “You will not.”
“Why?”
“First, because you’re a friend, and friends don’t pay. Second, because this food isn’t Luna’s. It’s mine.”
I blink down at the container. Then peer back up at him. “Wait, you made this?”
“I’m going to try not to be offended by how surprised you sound.”
“No, no, I just assumed, when you handed it to me, that you’d gotten it from the kitchen fridge or something.”
“I brought it,” he says. “You must have missed me unpacking the cooler when you were drooling over the gelato display and telling me the six-flavor combination you want.”
“Excuse me.” I stab another big bite of lasagna with my fork. “I was not drooling. But I absolutely did pick six flavors.”
A smile flashes across his face, and for just a moment, I recognize the handsome, happy guy from the cover of the cookbook Lauren gave me. Heat hits my cheeks. I need to stop thinking about that cookbook cover. And Lauren calling him Hot Chef.
Alex’s smile falls as he watches me take another bite of lasagna. He says, “I really wish you’d have let me heat that up.”
“No heat,” I mutter around my mouthful. “No more heat, never ever.”
A frown tugs at his mouth, knits his brow. “Why’s it so hot in your apartment? Is your AC not working?”
I shake my head. “Property manager is on it, though.”
Hopefully.
“Will you and the dog be okay, staying there?” he asks. “While you’re waiting for it to be fixed? Sounded like you were pretty miserable there, earlier.”
“I was exaggerating about poaching in my own skin. I’ll be fine. So will Argos. I have a giant box fan that keeps the air moving.”
He narrows his eyes. “You sure?”
“Mm-hmm.” I scoop up the last delicious bite, chew, and swallow. Then I tell him, “Thank you again, for the lasagna—that was incredible. So weird. I feel human now.”
“Very weird,” he says, “how eating real food does that to you.”
I’m not taking the Jif bait. “Where can I wash this?”
“You can’t.” He pushes off the prep table he’s been leaning on and takes the container.
I watch him drop it in the cooler at the end of the table, then cross the kitchen. He disappears into a walk-in fridge, then remerges with two giant bowls of gelato.
My throat thickens. I will not cry. “You didn’t actually have to give me all six flavors.”
He sets a spoon in each bowl and hands me mine. “I think we can agree it’s been a six-flavors kind of week.”
“Truth,” I tell him. “So Alexander, want to talk about your terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day? Week,” I amend. “I had to, though, because of the book. You familiar?”
His gaze narrows. “I hate that book.”
I gasp. “Why?” Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day was a childhood favorite. I work it into the rotation every year at The Bookshop’s StoryTime.
“Because,” he tells me, “my dad always says it when I’m in a pissy mood—Uh-oh, Alexander’s having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day!”
I bite my lip. “I think I’d really like your dad.”
“Oh, I know you will,” he says.
“ ‘Will?’ ” I ask.
Alex looks my way. “My family is inescapable. If we’re going to be friends, you’ll meet them sooner rather than later…” He clears his throat and glances down at his gelato, scooping up a spoonful. “Maybe you’ve changed your mind about that, though. I shouldn’t assume.”
“I was going to say the same thing to you.”
Alex frowns, peering up at me. “What?”
“You told me you had a bad week, and all you’ve done since then is take care of me.” I glance down at my gelato, poking around it. “I don’t want to have an imbalanced friendship.”
“Hey.” Alex settles on the table beside me. “We won’t.”
I give him a flat look. “What have I brought to this friendship so far?”
“Humor,” he says. He sets down his gelato and extends one finger, then another, when he says, “Empathy. An equal fervor for gorging on gelato.”
Argos whines outside the door.
Alex gives me a sidelong glance. “A needy dog.”
I grimace. “I think he’s developed separation anxiety since I left him with Ethan last week.”
Alex glances at the kitchen door leading to the alley and sighs. “Mia’s having a tough time with separation, too.”
My heart aches. “I’m sorry, Alex.”
“Me, too.” He gives me a sad half smile. “It’s rough.”
“Is that part of why the week’s been hard?” I ask. “You took her back to Jen?”
“Yeah, today was our custody-switch day, which was tough. And the past few days, Mia’s been a ball of very big emotions. Understandably.” He sighs, then has a spoonful of gelato.
“I’m sure it’s a lot for her to try to make sense of. Hopefully, it’ll get a little easier for her as it gets more familiar.”
“Hopefully,” he says, before another spoonful of gelato.
I take a bite, too.
Around his mouthful Alex says, “Divorce sucks.”
“It sucks donkey dong.”
He snorts. “Donkey dong?”
I laugh so hard, I almost spit out my gelato. “I overheard a kid say that to his dad at The Bookshop last week. I almost peed myself.”
“Mia will be saying shit like that to me before I know it,” Alex mutters. “That child is not afraid to speak her mind.”
I smile. “I think that means you’re doing something really right.”
He’s silent for a beat, then says, “I hope so.”