dinner, one round of sex, one silent exit by yours truly.
“You want to come along?” Rodney asks. “That what this is? You inviting yourself to hang out with me?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Let me ask Colin if he minds.”
“Shut up. That’s not what I meant.”
He pulls out his phone and starts typing a message.
“Rodney!”
He laughs and puts the phone back in his pocket. “What are you up to, R.C.?”
I scowl and study my dirty fingernails. “I’m meeting someone tomorrow afternoon and I’m supposed to decide what we’re going to do. But I can’t come up with anything.”
“You got a date?”
I feel my cheeks heat. “Yeah.”
“In the afternoon?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s pretty PG. You need me to chaperone?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“Relax,” he says. “We can find you something to do. Is this person a guy?”
“Yes.”
“You know him well?”
I should, shouldn’t I? I’ve had sex with him. I’ve been to his home. He made me a sandwich. But I still feel like I’m missing something. Or maybe it’s just that I’m holding something back. “Not really.”
“You want to get to know him?”
“Maybe.”
“You could go bowling. You can tell a lot by how a person plays sports. Does he let you win? Does he whine if he loses? Can he count?”
“Hmm.” Outside of hurling balls for the requisite games of dodgeball in elementary school phys ed, the only athletic ability I possess is throwing darts.
“Or go to a movie. You can pick something cheesy and romantic and see if he gets the hint, or you can choose that horror one that’s out and jump in his lap when you get scared.”
“I don’t get scared.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“All right. Thanks.”
I resume sorting, and Rodney continues to avoid it. He flips the water bottle up to the ceiling, catching it in one hand when it comes back down. “So what are you going to do?”
I study a rogue can of pumpkin puree. “Not telling. Did you sign up for cooking school?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Working on it how?”
“Okay, I’m not working on it. But don’t tell Lyla.”
As someone who’s had years of practice bumping around the edges of the truth, I know there’s something he’s not saying, and something he wants to. I stop working and sit on an unopened box, fixing Rodney with my best penetrating stare. “Fine, you don’t want to be a chef. What do you want to do?”
He tosses the water bottle back and forth between his hands, suddenly shy. “I don’t know.”
“You have an idea.”
He mumbles something.
“What?”
“I said, maybe a video game designer.”
I think about how he spends his entire lunch break playing games on his phone and dropping his food on the floor and say, “That’s a good idea.”
“You think?” He watches me from the corner of his eye.
“Sure, why not? You’re obviously terrible at relationship counseling and sorting cans.”
“I’m good at everything.”
“Have you researched any schools?”
“A little.”
“And?”
He shrugs. “And they’re expensive. I don’t know. We’ll see.”
“Want me to tell Lyla? Maybe she can reach out.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“She just wants a better life for you. Better than this.”
Rodney crouches down to open a box, then thinks better of it and sits on the floor instead. “You work here, too,” he points out.
“Yeah. Well.” I check the expiration date on a can of baby corn and avoid his stare, but I can feel his eyes. For all my dark hair and dark clothes, maybe I’m not as invisible as I thought.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Well.”
I REMEMBER WHEN GETTING ready for a date meant painting my fingernails to match my shoes and getting my hair blown out. Now it means opening up a new burner phone and punching in a bunch of fake contacts so if Chris asks for my number again, he won’t see I’m a friendless loner. I even add a generic background picture of a sunset, like I’m a person who cares about sunsets.
At ten to twelve, I step into a pair of boots and pull on a raincoat, zipping it up to my chin before venturing outside. Most people would bemoan a rainstorm on the day of their big date, but I’m pleased. The rain will keep normal people indoors, where I prefer them.
Chris is waiting just inside the entrance to his building, chatting with the doorman. He spots me, and I lift a hand in greeting, my fingertips pelted with icy rain.
“Hey,” he says, coming out. He’s wearing jeans and his green jacket, and now opens up a black umbrella, tilting it to shield against the driving rain.