Four
Katie Zhang
So . . . Miles Callahan is staying in our building
Excuse me what?
In the apartment across the hall near the stairs
You mean the one with the cat and the terrible water pressure?
Shit I forgot about the water pressure
He’s going to kill me
Are you seriously telling me he took up your challenge?
This had better not be a joke Mat I swear to god
MILES CALLAHAN TOOK UP MY CHALLENGE AND IS STAYING IN THE APARTMENT WITH THE AWFUL WATER PRESSURE!
I HAD TO TEACH HIM HOW TO USE A LAUNDROMAT AND NOW HE’S BUYING ME STEAK FOR DINNER
Help
Omfg
You don’t sound like you need help actually
IT WAS ALMOST seven when Miles arrived, dressed in a pair of casual jeans and a dark grey Henley, its long sleeves bunched and its buttons open to reveal the silver necklace he always wore cutting across his collarbone.
He smelled freshly showered, the cologne I had noticed earlier having a hint of almond and sunlight amid the soft floral tones that made for an intriguing combination.
It left me feeling strangely underdressed despite the rips in his jeans.
A reminder that I was spending my evening with a man used to glitzy parties and five-star hotels, while I hadn’t even tidied the place up.
I’d meant to, only to get stuck circling all he’d said about my game like it was running on repeat in my head.
He’d used words like talent and instinct and fucking brilliant, and I’d almost remembered what it had felt like to fly.
“Dinner’s on its way,” Miles said, flashing a smile as I let him in. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“Always.”
It had been a flippant answer, yet it possessed enough truth that I couldn’t decide whether him taking it literally or meta-phorically was worse. Both were all too honest.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked so he wouldn’t think about it. “Not that I have many options.”
Miles opened the paper bag he’d brought and planted a six pack on the kitchen counter with a glassy clink. “I have provided that too.”
I wrinkled my nose with the distaste that only a lifetime of Australian cultural indoctrination could hammer in. “Budweiser? Really?”
“Yes, I know y’all hate it and its boring shit, but it reminds me of home, all right? Here.” He cracked one open and handed it over. “Suffer like an American.”
“You mean like bad healthcare and student debt?”
Miles barked a laugh and clinked his bottle against mine. “What can I say? Greatest country in the world. Cheers.”
I took a mouthful expecting horrible, only to be under-whelmed even by its awfulness. “You know what,” I said, licking my lips. “I’m no beer connoisseur, but it’s fine? Just, dull and average.”
“That’s what I want to hear. Dull and average.”
I grinned and tried another mouthful. It failed to improve. “I’m sure it’ll do the job.”
Beer in hand, Miles made for the lounge, where an old fabric monstrosity with patched cushions took up most of the space. A similarly upholstered armchair sat at an angle beside it, both facing the TV over a scratched-up square coffee table. It was all the communal space the apartment had to offer.
As he sank onto the ugly couch, I was struck anew by just how ridiculous this was, and said, “What are you doing here?”
“Buying you dinner and hanging out?”
“I don’t mean here, I mean . . . here, like in this apartment building, in this part of London. Doing this.”
His smile vanished, leaving him staring into the distance over his beer bottle. “I’m here because . . .” He tapped a finger on the damp glass. “You said it didn’t belong to me. My success. I guess I wanted to prove to myself that it did.”
“Hit a nerve, did I?”
“You could say that.” He paused his tapping. “And you know, I really hate that people think—” Miles snapped his jaw shut and shook his head. “Never mind.”
With a friend, I would have asked what he’d been about to say, but although he had brought beer and was sitting on my terrible couch, we were not friends.
Miles Callahan was a star of our game, whereas I had become a has-been without getting to be first. And so I let it go, burying my curiosity in another sip of beer.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Probably the food,” Miles said, abandoning his drink and getting up. He opened the door upon the slightly confused expression of a young man in a neat uniform, holding one of those scanners that were terrible to sign on. And an enormous Styrofoam box.
“A delivery for Mr Miles Callahan?”
“That’s me.”
The young man—who on closer inspection looked more like a high-end postal courier than someone who delivered food—handed over the box with reverential care. “I’m going to need a signature, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, sure.” Miles passed the box on to me, and it was so much heavier than I’d expected that I almost dropped it.
While I adjusted my grip, Miles took hold of the dangling stylus and signed with a few hurried taps. “There you go.”
Job done, the young courier lingered on the threshold, and just as I began to wonder whether he would ask for an autograph, he burst out with, “Thank you. Uh, for the tip. It, um, yeah. Thanks.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” Miles said, his smile so broad it lit up his eyes. “You have a great night.”
“Yes. You too. Thanks.”
An awkward little nod and the young man scurried off, leaving Miles to close the door. I lifted an eyebrow. “How much did you tip him? He looked like he wanted to kiss your shoes.”
“None of your business, Russo,” Miles said, grin broadening. “Besides, you said this didn’t count toward the budget so it doesn’t matter.”
I held up my free hand. “It doesn’t, I just . . .” I swallowed my surprise, because admitting I had thought him on the ‘selfish prick’ end of the tipping scale probably wasn’t a wise start to the evening. “I don’t think I’ve ever had to sign for a food delivery.”
“No, but you have to sign for premium couriers.” He took the box from my hands. “You can’t order a really good steak through an app, but there’s a great place in town and they like me, so I made a couple of calls. And now . . .”
He set the box on the coffee table, pulled away the tape, and gently prised off the lid like a man uncovering buried treasure.
Inside, a stack of large, square plates took up most of the space, the contents of each protected from the one above by half a waxed cardboard box.
A pair of plastic containers had been crammed into one end too, while the other held a very fancy looking waxed box wrapped in tea towels and small ice packs.
“What’s that?” I asked, reaching for the bundle.
“Uh-uh.” Miles slapped my hand. “Don’t touch that, that’s dessert and it’s a secret.” Taking care not to displace the rest, he gently edged it out and carried it to the kitchen. The fridge door squeaked open and he stuck it inside, tea towels and all.
He returned with cutlery while I unstacked the actual, genuine restaurant plates this place of his had sent our food on. “Do we have to return the plates?” I asked.
“No idea. I’ll find out later.” He lifted one of the half-boxes doing duty as a lid, uncovering what had to be the greatest looking pair of steaks I had ever seen. The fancy chefs had probably cringed as they plated them up for delivery, but my mouth watered. They were even still warm.
The other two plates contained an even greater crime against fancy cooking – a collection of all different sides plated together into two great vegetable mounds that threatened to spill onto the table.
And to complete the chefs’ pain, they’d had to stuff undressed salad into plastic containers, and provide little baby containers of dressing.
Somewhere, the gods of fine dining were hiding in a pantry crying into their aprons.
“This looks amazing,” I said as we spread the plates and containers over the coffee table. “But I feel a little sorry for the chefs who had to fill this order.”
As he settled cross-legged on the floor, Miles threw me a grin. “Knowing the guy who runs the place, wanting to torture his staff was probably at least half the reason he agreed.”
“Oh, so not because you’re rich and famous?”
“Well, perhaps I also promised to visit during Wimbledon and post about it.” He pointed his fork at me. “That has to be outside the budget too, since I only have to go so I could get you steak.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “All right, go to your fancy restaurant. Only once, mind. The rest of the time you’re stuck eating what I’m eating.”
He gave me a look as he cut into his steak, the meat so tender he could slice it with a goddamn butter knife.
“I’ve seen your food budget and it’s not pretty.
I figure I can shift more into mine since I don’t spend as much on my gear—thank you, sponsors—but it’s still going to be rough.
And what if I make it to the second week of the slam? You haven’t budgeted for that.”
“Because it hasn’t happened before.” I stuck a piece of steak into my mouth, the sheer perfection of it mixing oddly with my bitter words.
Miles paused in the act of scooping asparagus onto his plate. “What do you mean it hasn’t happened before? You made the fourth round of the US Open when you were nineteen. And at least the third at Wimbledon.”
I stopped chewing to stare at him, before swallowing a mouthful that suddenly tasted of nothing. “You remember that?”
“Yes, because it pissed me off. Because you did everything so effortlessly while just winning matches on tour was a struggle for me back then. You went from star junior to star pro without a blink and I felt like . . . like that was always going to be my life, you know, living in your shadow.”
For the second time that day, his words stole the air from my lungs, leaving me hollowed out and staring.
He turned his frowning attention to the task of prising open the salad containers. “Had you actually forgotten you did that?”