Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
DREW
Mom calls before my shift is over. There are only a few customers in the store, and I’m restocking the gum at the register. When I answer she gets straight to the point.
“You and Stella ate lunch together?”
The gossip in this town moves fast, but I expected a call asking who I was eating lunch with. My being seen with any female would make the news, but that the busybodies have already connected her with the correct name is impressive.
“She showed up unexpectedly. I saw her eating lunch and stopped to say hi.”
“Oh.” She sounds disappointed. “I thought maybe you invited her to visit.”
“Mom, I told you. Stella and I are friends. Only friends. Don’t go making up stories about the two of us.”
“I like Stella,” Mom says in a voice that implies she likes Stella for me. “I always have. Can I get her number? I want to invite her to stay for dinner. You should come too.”
I don’t know why I try to keep things from her. She finds out everything anyway.
“I’m making her dinner tonight,” I admit. “Because she’s my friend.”
“That’s so much better!”
“Mom. Stop.”
“A mother can hope. Have fun.”
If my mom is matchmaking us, I can guarantee the rest of the town will join in. That’s annoying, but there isn’t much I can do about it, and some things are worth the gossip.
Mrs. Carver hobbles to the register with drawer knobs. I thought she was really old when we moved here. All these years later, she’s still really old.
“Andrew, I heard you have a new girlfriend.” Her voice wavers. “I’m proud of you.”
That’s how the rest of my afternoon goes. It seems my lack of a relationship has been a topic of conversation for some time, so being seen with Stella has caused wild speculation.
I escape at five and drop by the bakery across the street to pick up a cake from Lana. When I make it to my loft, waiting at my door is the bag of groceries I asked Claudia’s son to pick up for me. I Venmo him the cost plus a healthy tip, then get busy.
A message pops up on my phone through Facebook messenger from Quinn. Like all the other ones she sent over the last month, I swipe it away without reading.
It’s minutes after five-thirty when footsteps sound on the stairs. I should have given myself an hour before telling Stella to come over. My home isn’t a disaster, but I am a bachelor living on my own. It could be cleaner.
I check the pasta boiling on the stove, then make it to the door and open it before she knocks.
“Hey,” I say as I swing the door open. “You’re—.”
Her long hair is gone. It’s barely past her chin. My jaw drops, and she covers her face with her hands. She seems to do that a lot when she’s embarrassed.
“I know!” she says. “It’s awful!”
I brush away my shock. “It looks good!”
“No. It’s too short. Much shorter than I wanted. Nim said I could donate my hair, but then it took more hair than she originally said, so now I look like a cotton swab.”
I will not laugh, I will not laugh. I laugh, just a little. She peeks at me through her fingers and glares.
“Your hair is not funny,” I manage to say with a straight face. “But your reaction to your hair is hilarious. I think you look beautiful. No lie. Nim puffed it really nicely.”
“Puffed it nicely?” She groans. “Yep. A cotton swab.”
“No! That’s not what I meant. She styled it so you look nice.” My words are not comforting her. “But if you really don’t like it, hair does grow.”
“It’s the one thing that’s keeping me from crying over the monstrosity that I have become.”
She moves her hands to her neck, as if looking for something that no longer exists.
Her eyes are sad, but there’s a slight smile on her lips.
It makes me chuckle. She rolls her eyes and chuckles with me.
I laugh. She laughs. Then we’re both laughing uncontrollably, even though nothing in this situation is that funny.
We’re laughing so hard she leans against the door frame to stay upright, and I brace my arm against the wall.
With a start, I realize this is the first time since Quinn left that I’ve felt content. Stella’s friendship is good for me.
When we get the laughter out of our system, I step back and open the door wider. “Come on in.”
She points down the landing. “What’s behind that door?”
“Storage. Mostly decorations for holidays. We keep some stock in there too, but it’s a pain to grab it from the second floor, so not a lot.”
She slips off her flip flops as soon as she’s inside and looks around. I wonder what she thinks of what she sees.
It’s a fairly standard living room with a couch, a TV on the wall, an end table, and a lamp without a shade.
The walls are basic tan; the laminate flooring a dark brown.
An arched opening leads to the kitchen, which is where I lead her.
It’s the same size as the living room, with the counters, sink, and stove on one wall, the fridge next to the entrance, and a table with three mismatched chairs.
“It smells delicious,” she says. “What can I do to help?”
I hand Stella the spoon to stir the sauce, then drain the ziti pasta in the sink. It’s a little more done than I like, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.
“How long have you lived here?” she asks.
“Since I was eighteen. So ten years.”
“Wow.” She sounds surprised. “That’s … nice.” There’s a tone that says it’s anything but nice.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing.”
“Stella, you can’t say ‘nothing’ when there is obviously something.”
“It’s just … your loft is very impersonal. That’s a long time to live somewhere without making a mark.”
When Quinn and I married, she made the space her own, getting rid of most of my stuff.
I didn’t care. They were things left over from my teenage years, and I liked how she made the loft feel more grown up.
When she left, she took all of that with her except for the couch and the bed.
The table is from my mom, the chairs are ones I picked up on the side of the road that people were off loading. Same with the end table.
It never crossed my mind to buy more than the necessities. Stella’s making me see the place as if for the first time. She’s right; it is impersonal. Anyone could live here. Or no one.
“You could say I’m a minimalist.”
She laughs. “I’m the opposite of a minimalist. I love collecting things. Books. Tea mugs. Art from different places I travel. Blankets.”
Her apartment wasn’t cluttered, but it felt comfortable and lived in. There was art on the wall, blankets thrown over the couch and chairs. Colors everywhere.
“You live in Tucson,” I say. “You don’t need more than one blanket.”
“But isn’t it the best when the AC is high and you have to cuddle under covers?”
“Maybe?”
“You should try it sometime.”
I look around my kitchen again. How did I never notice how boring it is? “I’m not good at decorating. Maybe you can help me?”
“I would love to.”
I’m supposed to be cleaning the bathroom, not standing here talking about my apartment being devoid of personality. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
I clean as fast as I can then spray a healthy dose of air freshener as I leave, just in case. When I get back to the kitchen, Stella’s removed her hoodie. She hums softly, a melody I don’t recognize.
I pause next to the fridge with a view of her profile, and watch her stir the sauce. I’ve never noticed a woman’s neck before, but I’m noticing Stella’s tonight. The most random thought floats across my mind: what would it be like to kiss the smooth skin just behind her ear?
She catches me staring. “What?”
I push away all thoughts of kissing Stella, on her neck or anywhere else. She isn’t interested in someone like me, a small town handyman. I definitely am not interested in dating someone from Tucson. Friendship is what we both need. I want nothing more.
“Your haircut is beautiful,” I say.
All of her is beautiful. Maybe more beautiful since she can no longer hide behind her hair. I don’t say so. This isn’t a date. It’s a hangout.
Her free hand goes to the end of her hair and she grimaces. “Thanks.”
The sauce is the perfect thickness, and I remove it from the heat.
“Can I grab the plates?” She looks around. “Which cupboard?”
I point to the one in front of her. “Glasses are in the next cupboard over. But we have to bake it first.”
“Ooh. I thought we were just having pasta. I didn’t realize we’re having fancy pasta.”
As I layer the sauce, pasta, and three kinds of cheese in a baking dish, Stella cuts lettuce for salad. We chat about her day walking through the shops. I’m glad she loves Blissful. Hopefully that means she’ll come back to visit after next Saturday.
With the dish in the oven, we prep the rest of the salad toppings and spread garlic butter on French bread.
Our conversation is easy and fun. I can’t stifle my grin, so I stop trying.
I don’t invite people over anymore, but having Stella in my space is relaxing.
This is one of the things I miss about being married—decompressing together at the end of the day.
Until now, I hadn’t realized just how lonely I’ve been.
When the food is ready, we plate it and sit at the table.
She takes a bite and her smile widens. “Drew! This is beyond delicious. It’s stupendous.”
It is stupendous. The best marinara sauce I’ve ever made.
“You’re almost done with your temporary manager role, right?” I ask.
She nods as she chews and swallows. “One more week. Five more days. Forty more hours. I. Can’t. Wait.”
We share a smile. “Have you decided what you’re going to do once you’re done?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet. There aren’t any positions available right now that I’m interested in, but I’ll keep looking.”
“Have you thought about a career change?”
“No. I love the library. I can’t imagine working anywhere else.”
“Because you love books so much?”