“Where else are we supposed to go?” Milo asks. “We spent last night on your floor and I would be happy to stay there, but honestly you didn’t project a welcoming spirit toward us.”
“We don’t want to sleep on your floor,” Fred reassures me.
“It’s just nice to be asked,” Milo mutters.
“I appreciate that,” I say. “But I think—”
The door swings open to reveal Mikey Danger, in the flesh. A lot of flesh. He’s wearing shorts and no shirt, despite the fact that the sky is currently spitting cold rain. He smells like weed and he looks like a less-good-looking version of Jake Gyllenhaal. Like, if Jake Gyllenhaal were making a surprising cameo in an indie comedy as a hilarious stoner? That’s Mikey Danger’s look.
He squints at all three of us in turn, then shoves a twenty at us.
“I’m sorry?” I ask.
“Keep the change,” he reassures me as he starts to shut the door. He stops, opens it again, shakes his head. “Oh. Duh. I didn’t even get my food.”
“Mikey,” Milo says patiently, adjusting his glasses. “We’re not delivery people. It’s me, Milo. My boyfriend and I are staying with you?”
Mikey’s eyes widen as the realization dawns. “Oh! This makes so much more sense. I was like, ‘When did restaurants start sending three delivery people?’”
“It’s raining,” I state, and Mikey nods before moving aside so we can enter.
With all of us crammed into the dirty kitchen, Milo introduces Fred and points to me. “And you remember Chloe.”
Mikey looks me up and down. “Chloe. Yeah. I remember Chloe.”
“Hi, Mikey,” I say. I don’t know what he’s remembering, since the extent of our interaction was working together on a Revolutionary War project in ninth grade that involved me doing all the work. However, I am unfortunately forced to admit that “less-good-looking Jake Gyllenhaal” is a vibe that I’m into.
This kitchen, though? Not so much. There’s an overwhelming amount of stuff in such a small space; Milo attempts to lean against a counter and knocks over several empty soda bottles. He leans over to pick them up and Mikey murmurs, “Don’t worry about it.”
“This is great, Mikey,” Milo says with bravado. He’s trying to save face, trying to convince me that this is really a great idea and that living with Mikey Danger is going to be nonstop fun, because he’s always been unable to admit when he’s wrong. Milo looks at me and flashes a giant smile, and I roll my eyes.
I help them carry in the rest of their few boxes, wading through a messy living room that boasts a futon, a TV, and nothing on the walls. The guest room is similarly bare—a bed and one tiny window that overlooks the patchy grass outside.
“Home sweet home,” Milo says with a contented sigh, and then he leans in to give me a hug. “Thanks for helping us. I mean it.”
“Um . . . you’re welcome,” I say, unexpectedly touched. Fred gives me a quick hug, too, and then both of them walk me to the door. Mikey Danger is now cooking something unspecified at the stove.
“See ya, Chloe,” he says, raising his spatula. “Gimme a call sometime if you ever want to . . . gimme a call.”
“I probably won’t do that, Mikey.”
He nods, accepting this.
As I step out the door and Milo and Mikey are in conversation about something, Fred grabs my arm, his eyes wide, looking like Tyra Banks just asked him to do abject fear at the idea of living in a nightmare garbage dump, but make it fashion. “Take me with you,” he whisper-hisses.
“You’ll be out of here so soon,” I promise, then step on another beer can that somehow materialized on the front steps. I think about asking him why he’s with my brother—why he even agreed to come all the way to Ohio—but it’s still raining, hard, so I pull my hood over my head and run toward Nick’s truck.
* * *
* * *
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I say, rushing through the coffee shop and into Nick’s office. I slide out of my coat, spraying water everywhere. “I know I’m late. It took way longer than I expected because of the rain and—”
“It’s okay.” Nick looks up from his computer, where I presume he’s balancing the books. Or reading fan fiction about Canadian ice dancers. Nick’s a private man, so who knows. Perhaps the greatest part of the Nick Velez allure—I mean, not that he has an allure to me, but if he did—is the mysteriousness.