About Last Night
I pull open my heavy wooden door to find that Sami has changed into a light-blue T-shirt. A giant bag of kibble is leaning
against the doorframe and a harness is in his hand. His hat is gone and his hair is slightly wet; he must have showered. A
few damp pieces fall just over his brows, teasing at his eyes.
“I come bearing Ernest’s stuff.” He holds the harness a little higher and a clean minty scent wafts my way.
“Thanks,” I croak. He must sense my discomfort, because his gaze crawls up me, assessing.
He eyes the Yoshi Pez dispenser that I’m still holding on to. “Pez?”
“Oh . . . yes.” I swallow down the unease and force brightness back into my voice, the way I always do at work. “Would you
like one?” I hold it out, as if offering him a little welcome candy at the door was always my intention.
“Sure.” He accepts the dispenser and tilts Yoshi’s head back once to release a candy, then pops it into his mouth. “When I
was a kid, I used to pretend I was dramatically popping pills whenever I had these.”
I can’t help the loud huff of air that releases from my nose, almost a laugh. Almost a joke, even; is this a good sign? “In
that case, are you sure you want just the one?”
He grins, that dimple creeping back. He taps his belly. “I better not. Lunch is coming up.”
“If you’re sure.” I take the dispenser back and bury it in my purse, far out of sight.
“Come in.” I back into the door to invite him into my tiny theoretical foyer, which is more the floor space between the kitchen and bathroom.
He hoists the jumbo bag of kibble higher and rests it on the hall bench, arms flexing in the process.
I can’t believe I commented on his arms last night—and that’s only the part I remember.
I can’t believe I attempted to flirt in that state of drunkenness, let alone with a guy I live so close to, and will probably
have to make eye contact with several times in the foreseeable future. What was my drunk ass thinking?
Since I opened the door, Ernest has been jumping excitedly by way of greeting, which for his short tube of a body means flopping
around like an eel out of water.
“Hey, buddy.” Sami kneels to pat the little guy on the head. When he stands back up, he takes a step farther in—which is a
step too far. I follow his gaze as he takes in my apartment. The place is tidy, but it’s not exactly unique or groundbreaking.
There’s no art on the walls—that’s for when I make it to a real home. Furniture: Ikea specials that I assembled while listening
to a Dr. Death podcast. Bookshelf: Closing the Deal, The Persuasion Effect, Brand Like You Mean It. Alphabetized, of course. And yet, as I watch Sami’s eyes flit around the room, I feel exposed. He probably already thinks
I’m a creep after the lobby situation. Does a strange lack of personal items just reinforce whatever idea he already has of
me?
His stare crawls to the ancient white fridge à la rental that has my meal-plan whiteboard magneted on the front before turning
back to me. I tense. “You’re extremely organized.”
“You got me.” When you grow up in a house of madness, organization is the only antidote.
His expression shifts to the old Persian rug under my coffee table (that portion of the floor is so scraped it needed covering
with a rug from home). “You know, I didn’t realize you were half Iranian until last night.”
My face grows instantly warm. “Me neither?”
He chuckles at my terrible joke while I freak out internally. Another piece of knowledge to add to my blackout gap from last
night. I shared that I was half Persian. God, I must’ve been babbling like a total dong.
Then his eyes snag on the vision board hung above my desk. I’d originally tacked it there to collect inspiration for new campaigns,
but slowly it became a dream board of things I wanted: vacations I planned to take, outfit combos my dream self dared to wear,
recipes I would prepare when I miraculously found the time and energy to cook. Also featured: nicer rental listings I would
check out once my promotion was in hand. I was so close to the end of my second Five-Year Plan, this was all supposed to become a reality this year. But then I biffed my life, and if Sami outs me as a
prime suspect to Irene, those dreams are DOA.
I square my shoulders. I need to apologize, but I shouldn’t confess to things he has no proof of. That would only get me in
more trouble.
“Hey, so I’m actually glad you came by . . .” I start.
“Of course.” His eyes soften. “I’m always happy to help Irene.” Is it me, or does he say my landlady’s name rather pointedly?
Right. He does think I’m a dickhead.
“I also wanted to apologize.” I inhale, hold my head high, and summon my best I’m-an-upstanding-citizen-and-good-Samaritan
voice. “I’m sorry about the way I acted at your place of business last night.”
He stares at me, eyes wide, before a real smile cracks across his face. “You know, Hallmark should make a card for that.”
“I wasn’t myself,” I continue, looking down at the floor with contrition.
“I never drank that much before. This has been a bit of a hard twenty-four hours, but I’m hopeful I can turn it around.
” When I look back up at Sami he doesn’t seem too convinced.
“Seriously, I can’t remember much, but I want to die a little bit every time I think about what I likely said or did.
Normally, I . . . I . . .” I gesture around myself as if my organization system proves something.
“I mean, normally at that hour I’m in bed and not harassing diner employees for fried food. ”
A wounded look flashes across his eyes, one I didn’t anticipate. One that matches the feeling in the pit of my stomach that
has been churning since yesterday. He nods stiffly. “It’s all good.” He takes a step backward, toward the door, but stops
when he glances down at Ernest, who’s curled up like a little donut on the carpet. “Do you have everything you need for him?”
I bend down and pat Ernest, who looks up at me with his huge, cloudy, somewhat vacant eyes. “I think so. I’m actually a really
big animal person, but I haven’t had time for a real pet.” This is true. I’ve browsed the local rescue pages on occasion and
broke my own heart before closing them out. I choose not to disclose that I’ve never actually cared for a pet either, aside
from a clinically depressed fish who only requires the occasional shake of flakes into her bowl (flakes that smell concerningly
like fish). “So I’m looking forward to it.”
He notices that my gaze has slipped toward Alice. “You have a pet fish. That’s kind of random.” I can’t tell if he’s trying
to be nice or accusing me. His expression is giving me nothing.
He tugs on the harness he brought with him. “Has he gone for a walk? It’s been a few hours since the fire alarm.”
“Right.” I smile confidently, like I’ve always known dogs took walks. Although, honestly, with this dog’s penis-grazing, I’m
not sure more ambulation is what Ernest actually needs. Does he have a callus for the part that rubs against things? Instead
of asking that, I just say, “Of course—but no need, I was just about to take him on one.” I put out my hands for the harness.
“Oh, that’s great!” Do I imagine his knuckles tightening their grip on the harness? “I can join you. Show you his route, his
favorite trees to pee on.”
“All good. I think I can manage to find a suitable tree.” As I kneel and pat Ernest’s head to prove my point, he sneaks little dog kisses into my palm. I smile to demonstrate that I find this very cute.
His voice hardens. “It’s just, if Irene is in the hospital for much longer . . . Well, she can be kind of particular about
Ernest’s routine.”
All right, this is no longer a normal threshold of concern. He definitely knows. He thinks I’m a wretch, a scoundrel, a scumbag.
And worse still: He’s witnessed enough of my debauchery to ruin my life. And by the looks of it, he’s planning on doing just
that.
I have nothing else to lose now. Or at least, I won’t if he chooses to ruin me. It bursts from me before I even think it out:
“Okay, I did it!” I let out a huff at the same time his stance squares. “I vandalized the lobby, wrote on the board, caused
the fire alarm. All of it.” My words are tight, like they’re being fed through a sieve. “But it really wasn’t like me. That’s
not a cop-out, I just mean I’ve never done anything like that before. And I never will again! I’ve been a ball of guilt all
day. I feel terrible.”
He rubs his jaw; a scratching stubble noise filters into the otherwise silent room. I wait in tense silence for his verdict.
Finally, he nods. “I mean, I figured it was you.”
I stare at my feet. “I was that bad last night at the diner, eh?”
He half grins as the tops of his ears redden. “I mean you were a tad drunk, but mostly I figured it out because of the broken
vase from the lobby that’s currently in your sink.”
Both our gazes crawl toward the shattered vase that’s visible from here. Truly, I’m an idiot.
I look at him pleadingly. “Can you please do me the biggest favor ever and . . . not tell Irene? Or anyone, really . . .”
The words draw instant unease into his expression.
I take a step closer, earning another waft of his minty soap, and look into his eyes imploringly.
“I know I’m basically a stranger to you, and Irene’s your friend, but yesterday was .
. . Well, it was the worst day ever.” Not the real worst day, not even the second worst day, but I shove that thought down.
“The career I’ve been working toward all my adult
life imploded, so I went a little wild, and I really don’t think I meant to cause the damage.”
“Yeah.” He leans against my kitchen counter, a pregnant silence filling the room as he considers his words, before finally
saying, “Last night you mentioned your work was stressing you out.”
I cringe at the mention of the conversation we had that I can’t recall. “Sami, when I came in last night—it’s a little spotty.”