13. “Let me act like it.”
“LET ME ACT LIKE IT.”
HALE
Ifollowed her across town into a complex on the north side.
She parked in her assigned spot. I took a visitor space two rows over, grabbed the toolbox out of the truck bed, and caught up to her at the elevator. She hit four, and the doors closed around us.
“You sure now’s a good time?” she asked.
“I’m sure.” I’d bought myself a longer night at the shop to make up for this, but that was my business.
“If you’re sure,” she said finally, fiddling with her keys.
It was the same tension from the hardware store, only we’d joked our way around it there. No one was laughing now.
Part of me liked knowing she felt that tension too. The other part hated that it looked so much like nerves.
I was still turning it over when she let us in.
The apartment was small, living room into kitchen, a hallway beyond. But it wasn’t thrown together. She’d taken time with her space.
I stopped at the wall.
Black and white photography. Framed. Istanbul first. I recognized the Blue Mosque in the early light. Iceland next, black sand beaches, a wave caught mid-crash. Tokyo after that, neon signs in rain-slicked streets.
She’d taken these. Been to those places. Stood there long enough to notice things most people would’ve walked past.
“You want something to drink?” she called from the kitchen.
“Coke, if you have it.”
I kept moving along the wall. On the shelf sat a carved elephant, dark wood worn smooth, and a row of books in what looked like Japanese, French, and Arabic.
A deep indigo and burnt-orange blanket draped over the couch, woven tight, the kind of thing that took somebody weeks and sure as hell wasn’t ordered off .
There were no plants on the windowsill, though, or pet bowls by the door. Nothing that would need tending while she was gone.
She’d built something warm and left herself an exit.
I stood there a while, not liking how easy it would be for her to go.
She came back with the Coke. I picked up the elephant, turned it in my hand. “Where’s this from?”
“Kenya. The woman who sold it to me said it was good luck.”
“You believe her?”
“I believe she wanted a sale.” She smiled. “Kept it anyway.”
I set it down. “You’ve been everywhere.”
“Work takes me places.”
I looked back at the photo of Tokyo. Rain, umbrellas, one woman in a kimono cutting through it all.
“Must be something,” I said. “Seeing all that.”
She tilted her head. “You’ve never traveled?”
“No. I’ve never left the state.” It came out more like a confession than I meant it to.
She squinted at me, processing. “Why not?”
I started to answer, but the bedroom door opened before I could.
A woman stepped out with an empty water bottle in one hand and the other resting on her very pregnant belly. She was short, generously built, and stopped cold when she saw me.
Family stuff.
“CeeCee, this is Hale,” Yasmine said. “He’s helping with the locks. Hale, this is CeeCee. She’s staying with me.”
I set the Coke down and held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
She shook it. “You too.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “When are you due?”
“Four months to go.” She rubbed her stomach. “Already feel like I’m the size of a house. This kid better be cute as fuck, is all I’m saying.”
“If he takes after his mother, without a doubt.”
She peered at me. “Are you flirting with a pregnant woman?”
“No, ma’am. Got eyes, is all.”
“Smooth, but I’ll allow it.” She looked at Yasmine. “Keep this one. I like this one.”
“Not mine to keep,” Yasmine said.
“Mm-hmm.” She looked unconvinced. “Came out for water. Didn’t mean to interrupt whatever this is.”
“You didn’t interrupt anything,” Yasmine said.
“Sure.” CeeCee started toward the kitchen, then paused, her eyes dropping to the tools at my feet. “And thank you.”
I didn’t have the full picture, but that gratitude was for more than locks.
After filling her bottle, CeeCee disappeared back into the bedroom and closed the door behind her.
Pregnant woman in the spare room. Brand new deadbolt. Family stuff had a shape now.
“She seems nice,” I said.
“Yeah.”
That was all she gave me. I let it be.
“So,” I said, picking up the toolbox. “Let’s take a look.”
I crouched by the door and studied the old hardware. Standard deadbolt, sturdy but easy enough to replace. The one she’d bought was better, longer throw, harder to pick. A smart choice.
The job took twenty minutes, maybe less. I pulled the old one, set the new, and lined everything up until it sat right. Then I stood and handed her the keys. “Try it.”
She worked the key back and forth, then tested the handle. Everything held the way it was supposed to.
“What do I owe you?”
“We’re not doing that.”
“Hale—”
“We’re friends, Yaz. Let me act like it.”
Friends.
That word felt like a wedge between us, but I was the one who’d brought it up this time.
I should’ve left.
She should’ve let me.
Instead we stood there in her entryway with new locks and too much unsaid between us. Her phone buzzed on the counter, mine stayed in my pocket, and neither of us moved.
“Yasmine.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have to tell me what’s going on. But if you need something…” I made myself say the rest. “I’m not just here for your dry spells. You know that, right?”
“I know,” she said, so softly it was barely a breath.
I stepped back first. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “Thank you.”
The lock clicked behind me.
And for the first time since that bathroom, I wasn’t thinking about getting her back into my bed.
I was thinking about the lock, and who she expected might test it.