But even Bella couldn’t get a fake date and time on national television. Could she? And who is this guy? Oh my god, David.
The man in the apartment turns around. “Hey,” he says. “Are you hungry?”
At his question, my stomach rumbles. I barely ate at dinner and wherever I am, in whatever parallel universe with David, the Pad Thai has most certainly not yet arrived.
“No,” I say.
He cocks his head to the side. “Kind of sounds like you are.”
“I’m not,” I insist. “I just. I need...”
“Some food,” he says. He smiles. I wonder how wide the windows open.
I slowly come around the bed.
“Do you want to change first?” he asks me.
“I don’t...” I start, but I don’t know how to finish the sentence because I don’t know where we are. Where I would even find clothes.
I follow him into a closet. It’s a walk-in, right off the bedroom alcove. There are rows of bags and shoes and clothes hanging, organized by color. I know right away. This is my closet. Which means this is my apartment. I live here.
“I moved to Dumbo,” I say, out loud.
The man laughs. And then he opens a drawer near the center of the closet and pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and my heart stops. They’re his. He lives here, too. We’re... together.
David.
I reel back and run for the bathroom. I find it to the left of the living room. I close the door and bolt it. I splash some cold water on my face. “Think, Dannie, think.”
Inside the bathroom are all the products I love. Abba body cream and Tea Tree Oil shampoo. I dab some MyChelle serum on my face, comforted by the smell, the familiarity.
On the back of the door hangs a bathrobe with my initials, one I’ve had forever. Also, there are a pair of drawstring black pajama pants and an old Columbia sweatshirt. I take off the dress. I put them both on.
I run some rose hip oil over my lips and unlock the door.
“We have pasta or... pasta!” the man calls from the kitchen.
First things first, I need to find out this guy’s name.
His wallet.
David and I have a sixty-forty split when it comes to our finances, based on the income discrepancy between us. We decided this after we moved in together and haven’t changed it since. I have never once looked inside his wallet except for one unfortunate incident involving a new knife and his insurance card.
“Pasta sounds good,” I say.
I go back near the bed, to where his pants hang half off a chair, trailing to the floor. I glance toward the kitchen and check the pockets. I pull out his wallet. Old leather, indistinguishable brand. I riffle through it.
He doesn’t look up from filling a pot with water.
I pull out two business cards. One to a dry cleaner. The other a Stumptown punch card.
Then I find his license. Aaron Gregory, thirty-three years old. His license is New York State, and he’s six-foot and has green eyes.
I put everything back where I found it.
“Do you want red sauce or pesto?” he asks from the kitchen.
“Aaron?” I try.
