When the door opens on my floor, I don’t even head toward my unit. I turn the opposite way and head for the utility closet where the trash chute is located. I’m going to chuck this entire bouquet down the chute and put this whole damn day behind me.
I yank open the utility closet door, but the light is on and someone’s in there, struggling to open the trash chute and fit a very full bag of trash inside.
“Hey, uh, you need a hand?” I ask. I know almost everyone in this building, but I don’t recognize the woman in front of me.
She turns at the sound of my voice and says, “Thanks, I just moved in. Is there some trick to keeping this thing open while you put your trash…”
Her words die on her lips as we blink at each other in shock.
The woman throwing her trash out in my building is none other than my hot hookup from last night. The woman standing in front of me in black yoga pants, a loose top that’s falling over one shoulder, and a messy bun is Willow.
6
WILLOW
I lean forwardand stroke the rich, velvety petals of a dark red rose. “You didnot,” I gasp. “Please tell me you did not regift flowers from one woman to another.”
Ben leans across my white marble counter and grabs the bouquet. “This little fucker has caused me more trouble…”
“I blame the man,” I say playfully, yanking the bouquet out of his hands and setting it protectively by the sink. “Not the flowers. And since these were meant for me, I think I’ll keep them, thank you very much. They’ve come full circle. Finally made it home.”
Something about saying that, finally coming home, sends a cold shiver skating down my spine, and the hairs on my arms lift in warning.Homes are temporary, I remind myself. Everything is temporary. These cut flowers won’t last more than a couple days, maybe a week, if I water and feed them. Nothing is meant to stay in one place forever. Not people, not flowers.
I turn back to Ben, who is unwrapping thick moving paper from my barstools. They are really heavy, and the movers offered to unwrap them. But by the time everything else was inside, the bed set up, and most of the furniture reassembled, I didn’t havethe energy to have strangers spend another minute in my place. I’ll gladly accept a little help from Ben though.
“While you literally find yourself a chair,” I say, opening my completely empty fridge, “can I offer you some tap water? You might have to drink it from your hand, though. I haven’t unpacked the glasses yet.”
Ben crinkles up a load of brown moving paper and sets a vintage bronze barstool in front of the kitchen island. “Here okay?”
I nod. “Perfect. Although now that you saved my behind in the trash room, you’re going to have to show me where to recycle all my moving boxes and the packing paper.”
A slow grin spreads over his face. “Should we also toss out the evidence that you cheated on the best restaurant in Star Falls by ordering from—” he squints at a small pizza box resting on the counter near the flowers “—Papa Gino’s pizza? A chain, Willow? How could you order mass-produced pizza when you claimed just last night that food is your life?”
“Foodismy life,” I insist. “But there are times when cheap food is nostalgic. Some of my best memories were made over a gas station taquito or hot dog.”
“And some of your worst memories probably happened after eating that crap too.” He’s smirking, but I’m not going to join in on the joke.
The memories of road trips with friends, of the many things I’ve chosen to do in my adulthood with people who choose to spend their time with me, are running through my memory. Maybe he’s always lived in Star Falls and had gourmet meals. I sure as hell didn’t. But I don’t want my issues to ruin what might otherwise turn into a really fun night.
I arch a brow and come around the island to lean against the cool marble beside him. “So,” I say, looking him over. “I’m notexactly great at math, but I put two and two together. You’re Benito, king of Italian cuisine. Am I right?”
He sucks his lower lip into his mouth like he’s biting back a laugh. “Well, I am Benito Bianchi,” he confirms, stretching out a hand to me. “Creator of Italian delicacies, regifter of flowers, and savior of ladies who can’t figure out trash chutes.”
I take his hand and hold it in mine, and almost without meaning to, I trace my fingers across the back of his knuckles. His hands are strong and warm, the kind of hands that could shape dough or tug my hair with equal intensity. I know because I’ve already experienced one of those. Despite what seems like a giant ego on this man, I can’t say that I’d mind experiencing him again.
As I stroke his hand with my fingers, the air between us sizzles with the memories of last night. The unspoken question of whether we’re headed in that direction again sparks between us like fireflies on a summer night, suddenly playful and unexpected.
Hooking up with Ben might be more complicated now. I know a little about who he is. I know about his business, his roof, his kitchen manager, and her none-too-subtle frustration at Benito’s business practices. As if that wasn’t enough, we’re next-door neighbors. For a woman who never likes to dig too deep or stay too long, this situation already feels like far too much.
“Do you prefer Ben?” I ask, switching the topic to something neutral. “Or was that just your bar name? You know, the one you give hookups if you want to stay anonymous.”
He chuckles. “I’m never anonymous. Not in a town like Star Falls.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, because he doesn’t even sound like he’s boasting. In a town this small and quaint, I’m sure it’s true.
When he turns to face me, his stare is intense. I feel like I’m under a spotlight, and yet, it’s not uncomfortable.
I feel my body come awake under his gaze, like my limbs are flowers starving for the kind of light only he can produce. I no longer feel the sore feet and tired hands from moving and standing all day.
