can fix it in a few minutes. It’s a simple washer replacement.”
“I don’t know what a washer is.”
“It’s a… You know what? I’ll just go grab one. The hardware store on Pine doesn’t close until eight.”
I frowned, not expecting him to actually leave the building in order to fix my sink. “You don’t have to do that. The plumber will be here on…” He was already putting on his coat.
“It’ll take ten minutes.” He kissed my cheek, and I stiffened. “I’ll be right back.”
What was happening here? “O—okay.”
The door closed behind him, and I stared at my empty apartment. Were we playing house or something? Was I supposed to feed him now? This was definitely not the way I did things.
23
Avery
As Noah messed around in my bathroom, I scrambled to put together a nice meal. I didn’t do meals. I was used to only feeding myself or dining at fancy restaurants while my clients picked up the bill. Extremely unprepared for a two-person dinner party, I felt every bit of my inadequate upbringing.
“How’s it going in there?” I called as I dumped a box of whole grain macaroni into a pot of boiling water and searched the cabinets.
“Good. Almost finished.”
He’d returned from the hardware store, tracking a decent amount of melted snow through the door with him, and carrying a little bag with the washer thing he needed. The ground outside already wore a dusting of white, and my wood floors now wore damp towels to mop up the puddles from the ice chips melting off his boots.
I opened a can of tuna and let the liquid drain into the sink. I didn’t cook. I grazed on things like veggies and Greek yogurt and granola, filling up only when a client handled the bill. My culinary skills weren’t honed beyond my mother’s four regular dishes, and those recipes weren’t what anyone would call tasty.
Forking through the tuna, I fluffed it in a bowl and squirted some mayo on top. Salt, pepper, and some chopped green olives and there you had it. Mom’s signature dish for funerals around the trailer park.
Fuck. He was going to hate this.
Noah appeared as the noodles were about ready to strain. “You’re sink’s all fixed up.”
“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“No problem. What are you making?”
“Um … pasta.” That sounded better than tuna noodle surprise or whatever the hell this was called.
“Need help?”
“No, you did enough. Just relax, and dinner will be done in a few minutes.” No idea where this Suzie Homemaker talk was spouting from. My mother certainly never used words like that.
I carried the pasta to the sink and drained the water. While it rested in the colander, I searched for a serving bowl. I didn’t own one.
In my bedroom, there was a ceramic dish I used to hold my scarves, and I briefly debated using that but feared it might look stupid. Resigned to nothing but a saucepan, I brought down two plates.
I dressed the table with folded paper napkins—diagonally because that seemed nicer—and silverware I bought at the dollar store. Shit. I had nothing but water or coffee to drink.
Noah was quiet as he waited in the living room, his head tilted down as he paged through something. I rounded the sofa. “Do you have anything to drink at your—”
The blood drained from my face.
I snatched the photo album out of his hands. “Where did you get this?”
“Hey, I was looking at that!”
I clutched the photo album to my chest. “This… This isn’t for sharing.”
“You still look like you did in high school. Do you still have that cheerleader uniform?”
My face burned. “No.”
“What’s wrong?”
Maybe he only got as far as the high school pictures. My mind rapidly tried to recall if there were any incriminating photos—Shit! Prom! We’d taken pictures in front of my mom’s tacky Precious Moments collection, the battered wood paneling and green carpet probably showing behind me and Bobby Pritcher.
“Please don’t go through my stuff.”
He frowned. “Okay. Sorry.”
“Do you have anything to drink at your place? I just have water.” And now I was in need of something much stronger.
“Yeah.” He stood, and the second he left my apartment I flipped open the album and winced.
Me with pimples and horribly frizzy, mousey brown hair. Me with my belly hanging out of a shirt two sizes too small when I was going through my chubby stage. Me holding up a bedazzled denim jacket that had never been in style, even when I traded all my bracelets for