for a second, like he’s gathering up his patience. “I don’t want coffee.”
“So? Have tea.”
“I don’t want tea.”
“Then what do you want?”
He holds my stare, then lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Have water, then.”
A pause, then he dips his head, and I think he’s trying not to smile. “Are you going to tell me you hate me at the end of this?”
“No. Probably not.”
“Probably not?”
“Are you going to do something hateful?”
He falters, just the slightest flinch, something I wouldn’t have noticed if I weren’t so edgy. If I didn’t doubt everybody. But then he says, “No. I’m not,” and walks to his building, the doorman frowning as I follow, neither of us certain I should.
“What are we doing?” I ask as we enter the lobby.
“Getting sandwiches,” Chris says, calling the elevator.
“They have sandwiches next door. And lots of other places.”
“Yes, but mine are better.”
“Is that true?”
“Maybe not. But I want to get out of this suit. Not like that,” he adds, when I misinterpret the statement as innuendo.
“I knew what you meant,” I lie.
We exit the elevator on the ninth floor, and this time I pay attention. His unit is at the end of the hall, 912 scrawled in silver script above the peep hole. Chris opens the door and gestures me in first.
The apartment looks more real in the fading gray light of day. Last time, in the dark, it felt like a stage, small sections carefully lit, showing only what needed to be shown. Today it feels less prepared. There’s a cereal bowl on the island, a paperback book splayed open beside it, facedown. There’s a sweatshirt forgotten on the couch, a beer bottle on the coffee table. The shoes by the door are scattered, not lined up in pairs. The plants by the window are gone.
“Where are your plants?” I ask, using my toes to edge off my sneakers. I stuff my hat into the sleeve of my jacket and pass it to Chris, who hangs it in the closet.
“My what?”
“Your plants.” I nod toward the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. Last time it was lined with plants, but now the floor is bare. I remember because I can’t keep anything green alive in my apartment, and I was impressed that he could. Once, on impulse I bought a Venus fly trap at the checkout at the grocery store and it died three days later, a sad, hungry monster.
He glances at the empty space. “I brought them up to the roof.”
“Why?”
“To start preparing them to move outside. What kind of sandwich do you want?”
“I don’t know. Why do the plants have to go outside? I thought they were houseplants.”
“Are you the one with a degree in Plant Sciences?” Chris asks sternly, leading me toward the kitchen.
“No, sir. I’m not.”
He laughs and loosens his tie with one hand while shrugging out of his jacket with the other. I’d never really been one to fantasize about naughty professor role-play, but maybe I’d be open to it.
He pulls out one of the two stools at the counter overlooking the kitchen, then snags the cereal bowl and stashes it in the sink. “Have a seat,” he says. “I’m going to change. I’ll be right back to make you a sandwich.”
He disappears down the hall to his bedroom, and I give the paperback on the counter a cursory once-over—some faded old western—then get up to pace, releasing some of my nervous energy. Without the plants it feels more like my apartment. Just a box, not a home. There’s a closed laptop on the dining table, the case scuffed and silver. Beside it are stacks of papers, some typed, some bearing handwritten notes I can’t make out. There are business cards and receipts, but as far as I can tell nothing is related to plants. Not that it has to be, it just seems like he should have a botany book or two lying around. Or a plant.
I freeze when I recognize the logo on one of the papers. It’s a donation receipt.
If people donate in person at the Food Bank itself, they get a handwritten receipt from Lyla. If they donate at a satellite location, like a grocery store or as part of a food drive, we mail a typed copy. Chris’s receipt is handwritten. I recognize Lyla’s loopy writing, the circle she uses to finish her I’s instead of a simple dot. Chris Sherwood, it reads. Two hundred dollars.
I tell myself not to panic. It’s nice that he donated. In person. At