this apartment, we’ve only been in his. We’ve never been in public together. Never been outside, never gone to a coffee shop or a restaurant.
I sigh.
Oh well.
Resigned to the fact that I’m probably not his type, I shuffle into the kitchen and start pulling out plates. Forks. Knives. Napkins.
Brooks is buzzing from excitement (and hunger) when the bags get set on the counter—two loaded, top handle bags with ribbons securing them closed and the food safely inside, piping hot and fresh.
Soon, we’re prepping our plates, loading them up with pasta and ribeye steak and vegetables, desserts of key lime pie and crème brûlée left inside the bag and placed in the fridge. Shortly after that, we’re settling into our spots in the living room—me on one end of the couch, him on the other. The same spots we occupied the other time he came and crashed at my place.
Almost like we’ve settled into a routine, natural and…casual.
It’s nice.
“What are you into?” He’s looking at the television, so I’m not sure if he wants to have a conversation, or if he’s just being polite.
I wait until he makes eye contact to ask, “What do you mean—like, what are my hobbies?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “What are your hobbies?”
He’s twisted his body to face me, legs up on the sofa, plate balanced in his lap.
Sure? Was that not what he meant? Why would he say it like that? “My hobbies. Uh, let’s see. I collect…” I stop myself, because he’s not asking what I collect. He wants to know what I do for fun, outside these walls.
I think. Gather my thoughts and a forkful of dinner, then continue. “For fun I love walking through the city in the evening, just as it gets dark, with a hot cup of tea. Especially when it’s cold out.” Is that lame? “Oh—I also love antique shops.” Shit, I sound like Nan. Those are her hobbies, which, I suppose, would make sense since she helped raise me. “I love shopping, but not for myself. I love giving presents. And, um…hmm. I don’t know, baseball.”
Brooks’ brows shoot up. “You? Baseball?”
“Sure, I mentioned it before. Plus who doesn’t love baseball?”
“I can list a thousand people who don’t,” he quips arrogantly.
“Please, you don’t know a thousand people,” I shoot back, stabbing a carrot with the tines of my fork. “But you’re right, I bet not a lot of women you meet are the type who like baseball.”
He already knows my family has a suite at the stadium, and if he wanted, we could use it for any game he wanted to watch in person. He would be fed and could see all the plays from the best seats in the place.
I feel myself blushing. “I do really love baseball. My grandparents—mostly Grandpa—took me when I was a kid. My brother hated it, but I always loved it.” It’s been years since I’ve been to a game, but I doubt I’ve lost my zest for it—the loud thunder of the stadium during a scoring play, the cheers during a stolen base, the boos.
The hot dogs.
My stomach growls and I take another bite. “What are your hobbies?”
“Baseball. I like sports.”
“Do you like watching them in bars?”
He nods. “Fuck yeah. Who doesn’t?”
“In this city? Plenty of people.” You’d be hard-pressed to find a dingy sports bar in this city of snooty people, but I have a hidden gem I’ve been known to kick back in on game day. “I know a great place to watch in if you don’t want to hit the stadium. We should go sometime.”
“What’s it called?”
“I can’t tell you.” I nibble the end of a piece of asparagus.
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Yes.”
“I hate when you do that.” He’s frowning, cramming a hunk of meat into his mouth.
“I’ve literally never done that before.”
“But you will, and when you do, it’s going to annoy me.”
“Noted.”
Note to self: repeat that specifically to annoy him.
“Can I ask you something?”
I hate when people start sentences that way. I also hate
Now, don’t take this the wrong way and No offense, but… So when Brooks faces me, plate on his lap, expression earnest, I cringe a little inside as I crunch down on my food and chew, no idea what he possibly wants to ask me.
“I guess so?”
“Why did you friend-zone me?”
Not what I was expecting. “Did I?”
“Yes. You’ve called me dude, buddy, and friend at least a dozen times.”
“So?”
“So—girls don’t friend-zone me. I friend-zone them.”
I set my plate down, resting the fork along the edge, placing the utensils