June bit her upper lip and nodded once, as if internalizing my effort to keep our arrangement a secret. “Thanks. You can bring it later. There’s an entrance from the back street, too, not through the shop. You can park your car there.” She continued climbing with me following behind until we emerged onto a landing where her door was the only one.
Pointing at a little hall beside it, she said, “That leads to the front entrance of the building, just next to the shop. You’ll see it from Ocean Avenue, but don’t use it.” She extracted a set of keys and opened the door.
We took two steps in.
“Here,” she said, turning toward me again and handing me her keys. “Keep this set. I have another one downstairs.”
We stood close, and her smell of cinnamon and oranges filled my nostrils. It was almost a flavor.
The apartment was bigger than I had imagined from the pictures she had shared. The décor was June—matching natural colors, beige fabrics, and an airy, speckless, don’t-put-your-feet-up-on-the-coffee-table-or-ruffle-the-bed-or-sofa-throw-pillows atmosphere.
“That empty space next to my stock room? You can put your equipment there. It locks, too. You have the keys in the set. I assume by equipment you mean your guitars and cables, and pedals and stuff? I’ll tell people I rented it out to you for your workshop. That’s actually a good way for me to explain your presence.”
She said it all as if she were reading a presentation slide. We didn’t have time to align on these things, and I was glad she had thought ahead of all this.
“Okay.”
“We’re the only ones in this section of the building; there are no immediate neighbors. So no one will see you come and go if you use the back. Except for me and Rio, of course. It’ll be easier to carry stuff from your car if you use the back.” She paused.
I was curious how many more slides she had.
“I hope you didn’t bring too much. I don’t expect this to last more than a week or so. I mean, last time … I hope it won’t.”
“Likewise,” I said.
June gestured with her arm across the space. “Yeah, let’s hope it’s soon because …” She didn’t finish the sentence and she didn’t have to.
The place was too small for two strangers to share. The living room, kitchen, and bedroom were basically one open space, divided smartly with the positioning of the furniture, a carpet, and defining yet matching colors for each “room.”
My mom used to say about the six of us in our small apartment that, with enough love, even the eye of a needle was enough space. Obviously, it didn’t apply here.
“Bathroom and toilet are over there,” June continued. “There’s another toilet downstairs you can use, at the back, where you’ll … workshop.” She had no verbs to describe my work, which meant more homework for us.
“Where do I sleep?”
“The sofa opens into a bed. My sister and nephews have used it and said it was okay, so …”
“Lennox and Will, January’s sons, right? She had them young,” I quoted June from memory. I had to memorize her family members just as she had to memorize mine, including my brothers’ names in order of birth.
“Yes.” June smiled.
A real smile. A first. It was like soft brackets had opened around her mouth, allowing for more than shop talk. If we had to live here together, it’d be easier for both of us if there were more smiles.
“We have a lot to cover. We’ll start this evening when I’m back. Meanwhile, you can use this side of the closet,” she said, already marching toward a walk-in to the right of the bed.
As I followed her, I noticed the framed picture on the nightstand. The two of us on our wedding day.
I knew why she had put it there and why I should put my stuff on the empty shelves in her closet, although I’d have to pass by her bedroom every time I’d need to get clothes—in case we had a surprise visit from Immigration before the interview.
“I’ll go back downstairs and talk with Rio,” June said from behind me while I peeked into the walk-in. “I’ll explain that you’re going to use the space behind the shop and that … you’ll live up here.”
“Will you tell her the truth?” I shifted to look at her. We stood next to each other in her bedroom. The large bed was made as if a hotel housekeeping staff had tucked it to a maximum.
“It’s better to let her think we’re together than go to jail, don’t you think?” Sudden laughter escaped her mouth and seemed to catch both of us by surprise. It disappeared as swiftly as it appeared, and there she was again—the collected, put-together June. But, for a moment, that laughter had been like landing somewhere in the middle of the night when everything was pitch dark then waking up to find how pretty everything was, washed in sunlight.
“I told my mother last night, in case they contact her,” I said. “Not the whole truth because, if they ask, she’s too afraid of the law to lie.”
“And you’re not?” June’s eyes were piercing.
