• Comport myself with dignity befitting a woman of my age. For example, starting a conga line while wearing Davis’s assless chaps over my jeans with my bra as a hat WILL NOT happen again after last night.
• Oh yeah, DRINK LESS.
It was a good list. Admirable, really. I read through it once more, and then, with a quick flick of my thumb, deleted it. Who was I to try to fix what was already perfect?
The man was now snoring, so I hopped out of bed and began to get dressed. I didn’t exactly slam my dresser drawers, but I also didn’t try too hard to be quiet—rather hoping he would wake up. I pulled a chunky sweater over my head and watched him for any sign of wakefulness, but he was out cold.
Should I poke him?
I felt bad about the whole not-knowing-his-name thing on topof my desire for him to leave my apartment as soon as possible. Maybe breakfast in bed would soften the blow.
I rummaged around in my fridge and the tiny cabinet that served as my pantry. A trip to Trader Joe’s was overdue, to put it mildly. There was nothing here that I could possibly serve to a guest, let alone an attractive half-naked man. Bread: stale. Eggs: nonexistent. Yogurt: mold city. I gagged slightly as I shoved it back in my fridge to deal with later. I really needed to stop buying the family-size tub of yogurt.
Well, at least I had coffee.
A few minutes later, I’d scrounged together something resembling breakfast on a tray.
“Good morning,” I said sweetly as I crept back into my room.
He propped himself up on one elbow and gave me a lopsided grin. He had tousled, curly hair and brown skin smattered with freckles. I mentally patted Last Night Rachel on the back.Nice one.
“You made breakfast?” His voice was croaky, and slightly awed.
“I did.” I slid the tray onto his lap with the coffee facing him. It was the most respectable part of the spread, with a little bowl of sugar and cup of cream next to the steaming mug. His eyes roved over this while he wore a look of amused pleasure on his face. And then he took in the rest of it.
“Is that… ice cream?”
“Yes.” I began pointing to the other dishes. “And string cheese. And a pickle!”
He made a face that I couldn’t decipher one way or the other and then dug the spoon into the ice cream and took a bite.
I perched on the side of the bed.
“Listen…,” I began. He raised an eyebrow.
“Sam,” he added, his tone flat.
“Sam,” I repeated, a beat too late.Smooth, Rachel.I should have made him waffles, poor guy. “I have to head out soon. It was really fun hanging out with you.”
“Oh, okay.” He looked like he wanted to linger over the coffee, so I busied myself tossing things in my purse.
Ten minutes later, I shouted a cheerful goodbye down the hall of my apartment complex as Sam departed.Note to self: stop letting the guy sleep over.The next morning was always so awkward.
Around lunchtime, I arrived at my parents’ house and eagerly searched the kitchen for the promised sandwiches. They were in the fridge, piled on a plate wrapped tightly with plastic wrap. I selected a cream cheese and lox one and munched on it as I observed the present state of chaos in the house. My twin sisters were wailing like sixteen-year-old toddlers, Dad was darting about with our older sister on speakerphone trying to calm them, and Mom was nowhere to be found. Apparently the twins had been under the impression that Dad would take them to get their driver’s licenses today—the concept of national holidays having never crossed their self-obsessed minds. They believed that since they had been promised their licenses this year, they’d be able to waltz into the licensing office on January first. Jane tried her best eldest-sister peacekeeping over the phone but had the good sense to stay snug in her condo with her cat.
After enduring a good fifteen minutes of screeching, I found Mom tucked up in bed, happy as a clam, with her phone pressed to her ear. She talked for so long and in so much detail about people I’d never heard of, I thought I was losing it and perhaps Mom had a secret family. Finally she put the phone down and pulled the blanket up to her chin. “That was Pamela.”
“Who?” Perhaps it came out a touch aggressive.
“The Realtor, darling, the Realtor.”
“What Realtor? You’re not selling—?”
“No, no, of course not.” She patted her curls, which were piled decadently atop her head, and plucked a silver-backed mirror from her nightstand to examine them. “Pamela sold the house next door, silly. We were just discussing the Butkuses.”
“The who?” I was sure there was some elaborate joke being played on me. Butkus, I ask you.
“The couple moving in! Oh, come here.” Mom patted the bed beside her and held out the edge of her chenille coverlet. With a fair amount of grumbling, I climbed into bed and sat back against the Mount Rainier of throw pillows. “Speak up, speak up, don’t grumble.”
