Tessa

After a much-needed night of dreamless sleep and solid rest, I wake up the following morning feeling unusually confident about my life. Sleep will do that I suppose. Or maybe it’s just that total exhaustion has the opposite effect and I spend a great deal of my life in that state of sleep deprived existence.

Dick curled over my arm and pressed to my chest, I stumble my way out into the living room just in time to see Drea swing the front door open and wander in. It occurs to me somewhat too late that telling Lane about Drea’s busting in tendencies would have been a good idea last night. On the upside, Drea nearly always has pants on.

“Did you know you left your phone over here yesterday?” She swings her leg over the back of the couch and the rest of her follows in a plop on the cushions.

“That explains how I made it through eight hours of sleep without being woken up even once.” I wander toward her and the corner of my bulky rubber case peeking out from under a stack of junk mail, both of which are in her outstretched hand, ready for the taking.

“I’ve heard it jingle about three times since I’ve been up. No calls though. Just texts. I would have woken you up otherwise,” she explains but there’s no need. I know she would have let me know if she thought it was important.

Breath catches in my throat when it sinks in. I wonder how long it’ll be before I have to worry about missing important calls again. The last few years where Aunt Edi was living up North, every call from her was a priority. But, she’s the only one who’s ever held that status in my world. Outside of Drea, I can’t even think of anyone off the top of my head I’d bother answering for. Honestly, I’d rather people just text me anyway.

When I peel the phone out from the pile of envelopes, I see her name at the top of the screen instantly. I figured it’d be her.

“Miriam.” Aunt Edi’s youngest daughter and the only one who wasn’t pissed that I got the condo.

She nods, her focus on the TV she just turned on. “I saw. You going to call her?”

I’m scanning the messages as we speak. “Probably just send her a text. She was just checking to make sure I made it home alright.”

Drea laughs, but it’s at something she’s watching. Then she remembers we’re having a conversation. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Never mind, dude,” I shake my head, chuckling at the lost look on her face. Early morning Drea is about as coherent as drunk Drea.

I move into the kitchen and automatically find myself in front of the coffee maker. Lane already made some. God love him.

“Want some coffee?”I let the sugar pour into my mug an extra count. All summer long, Aunt Edi’s oldest, Meredith, spent her mornings shaming me into drinking my coffee severely under-sweetened, reminding me repeatedly of her diabetes, and when that didn’t work, pointing out just how much having me there was adding to her grocery expenses. Apparently, sugar wasn’t even on her shopping list before I got there.

“Are you offering me backwash and grounds or a for real cup of coffee?” Drea calls over from the couch where her eyes are still glued to the screen.

“A for real cup. Mind you, it will include both by the time you near the end, but what you do when you get to the backwash and grounds is entirely up to you.”

“Creamer,” she announces, as if that’s a complete sentence.

I’m not sure we have any. We. Weird.

My head hidden in the fridge in search of a flavored milk substitute, I miss his entrance until I hear him.

“Good Morning.” Lane has a pleasant morning voice. Of course, he’s already had his coffee, so that probably helps.

“Professor Michael,” Drea chirps, clearly suppressing a giggle.

“It’s Lane,” I correct her, retrieving the creamer and pulling my head back out of the fridge. “Does he look like he has Michael hair to you?”

She drops her head to her left shoulder, curiously investigating his head. It’s a nice head. Even when he’s glowering at me. Which he’s doing right now.

“I’m gonna grow it out. And slick it back. Or maybe, maybe I’ll get it cut into a mullet. What are ya gonna call me then, huh?”

It’s my turn to glower. “Nothing you wanna hear me say to your face.”

“Ron!” Drea chimes in, like it’s a game or something. “Ron is totally a mullet name!”

Lane glares at her, speechless, then redirects it at me. “Out of curiosity, how many people have keys to this place?”

“Like, locally? Or nationwide?”

He stops glaring and starts moving. “I’m going to assume that’s a joke.”

“You totally can. As long as you keep in mind that assuming is resulting in accepting false information as completely accurate.” I hand Drea her cup of coffee and then mosey back to the kitchen where Lane is busy slicing a bagel in half.

He notices me watching and looks up. “You want one?”

“Okay.” I pretty much want one of whatever he’s offering.

“Toasted?”

“Yes, please.”

His chin juts out in Drea’s direction as he reaches for the bag and gets out another bagel. “Same for Drunky?”

She laughs before she realizes he’s talking about her. “Hey!” Then she gets up on her knees and turns on the couch to face us over the back. “I’m going to let that slide since you’re making me breakfast. And I like toasted. Crunchy toasted. With cream cheese. And chives if you have.”

Lane stares at me in disbelief.

I shrug. “Her boyfriend does most of the cooking at the firehouse...and for them. She’s a little spoiled in that department.” I lean over the counter and whisper, “I don’t like crunchy. And I like jam on my cream cheese.”

“You’re used to him cooking for you, too, aren’t you?”

I nod. “Yeah, kinda.”

Lane drops his chin to his chest and pretends to focus on making our custom order bagels, but I can see his smirk and it instantly sets off a butterfly spitting sprinkler in my stomach. Just non-stop butterflies spraying against my insides. It stirs up an odd sensation which spurs the desire to vomit as well as burst into song. Deciding that neither is preferable for the time being, I opt to take a seat at the breakfast bar and wait until the sprinkler shuts off and the butterflies all die. Except, sitting here, watching him, seeing his muscles move under the exceptionally well fitted dress shirt he’s wearing is not helping. Nor is the inexplicably sexy way in which he prepares a bagel.

When he turns away to retrieve things from the fridge, I fully expect to get a reprieve from the hot flashes steaming my insides. And they might ease up, if I could avoid dropping my gaze down to his ass, but I can’t. I also can’t help but notice that today there are no pleated khakis. Today there are charcoal colored trousers which hug his perfect ass in a way no pair of trousers should ever be able to.

I gulp. Then, to cover up the sound, I blurt out, “What happened to your old dude pants?”

His head turns to look at me over his shoulder. “Nothing. They’re in my hamper. Why?”

I point. At his ass. “Just, you’re not wearing them.”

The refrigerator door closes, and he makes his way back to the counter where he stands across from me. “Did you think I wore them every day?” he asks, his tone making it all too clear he thinks I’m an idiot this morning.

“I figured you had six more just like them.”

He pauses, mid smear of Drea’s bagel. “You thought I owned seven pairs of the same pants?”

“You seemed awfully fond of them last night.”

“Did he refuse to take them off or something? Because that may not have had anything to do with the pants. Maybe he’s just shy.” Drea climbs over the back of the sofa and hurries over to continue her train of thought within better earshot of her audience, “Maybe he just had performance anxiety. Happens to older dudes.”

Lane scowls. Then he drops the half-cheesed bagel on a plate and hands it to her. “Here. Yours is to-go.”

She eyes it, gives it a sniff and shrugs. “Yeah, okay. I deserve that.” A quick peck on my cheek and she’s skipping out of our apartment again, humming as she goes. Food does that to her.

“I liked her better when she was just my drunk neighbor,” he grumbles, popping my bagel into the toaster.

“She’ll grow on ya,” I assure him, dedicating my mouth primarily to my coffee as to hide the grin I’m currently fighting off to no avail.

He rips a huge bite off his bagel with his perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. Chewing with one side of his mouth, he mumbles out of the other, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

I’m about to remind him that I prefer my breakfast with less crunch than Drea when he returns his attention to my bagel all on his own. For someone I wanted to kill two nights ago, he’s kind of turning out to be the best thing ever.

“What about you?” I ask, a sudden surge of desire to know everything about him.

“What about me?”

“Do you have a friend or two I should be prepping myself for?” I mean, he must have friends. He can’t just exist in a vacuum.

Lane seems to need an unusual amount of time to think about this. Or maybe he’s just so focused on making my bagel his brain can’t handle anything else. I don’t know, either way, it’s not until after he slides a plate in my direction that he casually shrugs and says, “I’m not expecting much company these days.”

“Why not?” Time to take a bite and let him do some talking for a while.

He doesn’t seem too keen on doing that though. “Mostly because no one really knows I’m here.”

“Huh?” Now that big bite doesn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.

“You ever have shit go so completely wrong, you just need a break? A moment to step back from your life and examine your choices, figure out where you got off track?”

I nod, still chewing. Truth is, I have zero idea. Don’t get me wrong. Shits gone all wrong for me plenty of times, but I’ve never actually felt as though I had any control over it, so spending more time focusing on it, always seemed more detrimental than helpful. Usually my approach is just to plow through, keep moving forward and hope to God there’s another side.

“Well, that’s where I’m at. My present sort of sucks balls, so I didn’t want any of my past coming along while I figure out my future.” He brushes the crumbs from his fingers and clears his plate. “Better hurry up and finish that or you’re going to be late.”

He doesn’t really know that. Just his way of ending the conversation. And I can accept that. For now. Sooner or later though, I’m going to want to know more about this past. In the meantime, I’ll just be working on not taking his ‘the present sucks balls’ comment too personally. Just because my present sucks a little less balls now that he’s in it.

Lane

The life of isolation and contemplation I’d envisioned for myself when I took this random job and chose this random apartment, really isn’t working out as planned. Mostly, because of me. Because I invited a girl to move in with me. And then I continued to pursue conversations with her. And then, I took on feeding her. Which now, has led to also feeding her friends.

Maybe I’m not cut out for isolation.

On the other hand, sitting in my room with the door shut pretending to be busy while I desperately wait for Tessa to finish up and leave is suiting me just fine. Provided I don’t let my mind wander. It inevitably takes off in the same direction every chance it gets. Her. And the things it conjures up upon arrival are beyond anything I’m equipped to process right now. And I’m the fucking psychologist.

So, I sit here. Counting the squares on the checkered curtains. It’s an endless, almost infuriating task as I lose count over and over again, but at least it’s safe. Temporarily. Until I get too pissed to keep counting, and start cursing the person responsible for placing this pattern in my line of vision to begin with. Her. And then, all my troubles will be for naught.

But, I’m not thinking about that.

I’m counting squares.