“I’m not worried about it,” I say. “He hasn’t even asked me to watch Kira, yet.”
27
Then next time I havea night off it aligns with one of Nick’s nights without Kira. I suggested a trip to Rubino’s. It’s my go-to spot to take a person who denigrates Columbus-style pizza—something Nick has done on several occasions because of his allegiance to New Jersey. But when I knock on his door, Nick ushers me inside.
“I just want to show you this before we go,” he says, taking a step backward. “I did a thing. Or, Itriedto do a thing. It’s very fragile. It might fall apart while we’re eating your subpar pizza so I’m showing you now.”
He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a plate with a large misshapen, plastic-wrap-covered lump on top of it. “I thought it would be funny to follow through on the Bundt cake, but it didn’t come out of the pan, so it’s kind of…malformed.”
He removes the layers of plastic wrap and I stare at the golden-colored mound. About half of it has the telltale grooves of my mom’s pan; the other was clearly broken off.
“It forced me to go to Kroger and purchase things like flour and sugar in addition to the Fruity Pebbles. I wanted to make a chocolate one, but that required cocoa powder, which I didn’t buy at the store because I thought it was the same as hot chocolate mix—”
Nuggets of Romily’s presentation and warnings float through my head, but all I can say is “You made me a cake?”
“It’s misshapen.”
“Okay, but cakes that look a little wonky always taste the best,” I say.
He puts the plate down, and that’s when I decide I’m not interested in pizza. And I’m done with savoring.
“Can I see your bedroom?”
Nick pushes openthe door to the one room in the apartment I haven’t seen.
Good news: there’s an actual bed frame. A headboard. More than one pillow.
A giant shelving unit spanning the length of the wall.
“Obviously I still need to decorate.” He nods at some framed gig posters propped against the wall. Bands I don’t completely recognize. They sound familiar to me in a hazy kind of vaguely-aware-of-their-existence way. I decide to be impressed.
Not so impressive are the boxes and piles. I’m judging this (unfairly), even though I sleep in an office where the boxes outnumber me about fifteen to one. I’m peeking at the contents of the Captain Morgan Original Spiced Rum box next to the door when I feel Nick’s hands brushing against my spine and thenmoving around my waist. His warm—always warm—body on my back. It’s like he’s spooning me while we’re standing up and I’m torn between wanting to just stay like this for several minutes or do more vigorous things horizontally.
Who am I kidding? I’m not torn.
I reach my right hand behind me, between our bodies, and I’m certain Nick is not torn, either.
His breath tickles the back of my neck. I drop my head forward, giving him better access.
“I’m glad you’re here.” He takes the bait, grazing my shoulder with his mouth. “I did change the sheets.”
I think my arms are already covered in goose bumps. “You liked your odds, huh?”
“I likeyou.” His lips move up my shoulder and the nape of my neck. “A lot.”
“You could hide it better.” I watch his fingers work at the buttons on my shirt, exposing my bra.
“Why would I want to hide it?”
I don’t have a good answer to that. Actually, the answer is:you see, I feel more comfortable when my would-be partners negme.
But maybe it doesn’t have to be that way.
“Good to know that you don’t only do this in the kitchen at Chili’s.” I feel everything with such clarity right now: the scratchy friction of Nick’s beard against my back, the cool breeze from the ceiling fan. “Or your car.”
“Trying to be slightly more comfortable here.” Nick reaches the last button and tugs the shirt off. It lands next to my feet.
“Fewer bruises.” It occurs to me that we haven’t properly undressed in front of each other. There are still so many tangible little mysteries to unravel.
