I glance at the sun shining out my windows. Still got a few hours to kill before I call it a night. It’s fine. Totally fine. I’m an adult man who can amuse himself. Tomorrow at eight I’ll be on for a twenty-four-hour shift with no time for existential navel-gazing. At least at the station I’ll have people around, calls to go on, lives to save. I’m not quite friends with any of my squad mates yet—it’s only been a week, and I’m the new lieutenant, the outsider—but at least I won’t spend the day talking to my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I walk to the fridge and grab a beer, popping the cap off against the counter edge. The sharp hiss and the cold glass against my palm are the only real things in this hollow space. I tell myself the emptiness in my chest is just adjustment pains—new city, new job, new apartment. It’s definitely not because I spent the entire weekend with Lily. And today, I felt every hour she wasn’t with me, either scolding me or laughing at my terrible jokes. Nope. I absolutely haven’t been counting the hours since I last saw her.
I press the cold bottle against my forehead and close my eyes. Two days. That’s all it took for Lily Finnigan to get under my skin. One hike, three shared meals, and a tour of the Santa Monica Pier. Add in an accidental sleepover and a minor emotional breakdown over breakfast, and she’s become the only interesting person in this entire city for me.
But hey, we’re just friends. She made that crystal clear, and I respect it. I mean, she’s got a kid and too many demons that don’t stay quiet around me. Talk about complicated.
I take a long pull from the beer to wash away the feeling. I shouldn’t miss her. It’s ridiculous to miss someone I just met, a woman who’s not mine to miss. Yet, here I am.
The doorbell jars me out of my thoughts.
I set the bottle down and head to the door, metaphorical tail wagging. Could it be Lily and Penny already? When I open up, my internal idiot does cartwheels across my lungs.
They wait on my doorstep like a domestic mirage conjured up by my lonely brain. Lily is still in her scrubs, messy ponytail, looking tired but beautiful in that unfiltered way that makes my throat tight. Penny has her hair up in a ballet bun, wearing shorts over pink tights. She’s holding a red bike with the chain hanging loose.
“Hey,” Lily says, almost shyly. “Is this a good time?”
I want to reply,“It’s about fucking time,”seeing how the drabness that’s been dogging me all day, whoosh, just vanished. But I go with a more understated, “Sure, now’s perfect.”
“Sorry to drop in unannounced,” Lily continues, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “We should have called first.”
“No, it’s fine,” I assure her, stepping back to usher them in. “I was just finishing up some unpacking. Nothing important.”
Penny studies me with that direct, unfiltered gaze typical of kids. “You smell like beer.”
I laugh, caught. “Detective Penny on the case. You’re right. I was taking a break.”
“Ms. Meyers says drinking alone is a sign of alcoholism,” Penny announces, prompting her mom to make a choked sound.
Lily shrugs at me. “Either Ms. Meyers has a lot of opinions, or her sage advice is being filtered through a game of Telephone.”
“No, Mom. It’s what she said.”
“Well, now I’m not alone,” I counter, winking at Penny. “Problem solved, right?”
Penny nods sagely, then points to her bike. “Can we fix this?”
“Let’s have a look. Better to work on the patio.”
I lift the bike, carrying it through the apartment and out to the small wooden patio at the back. The late afternoon sun warms the planks and casts long shadows. I set the bike down and go back inside to grab my toolbox.
When I return, Lily has settled into one of the two patio chairs I bought last week, while Penny is circling the bike.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask Lily. “I have beer, water, or…” I trail off, realizing my beverage options are pathetically limited. “Just beer or water.”
“I’m okay,” Lily says with a small smile. “I’ll laze it out on your patio while you two do the hard work.”
Our eyes lock, and the world blurs at the edges. “I don’t mind the hard work,” I tell her, meaning it in ways that go far beyond bike repair. If only she’d let me, I’d work so hard at making her happy.
Lily’s cheeks color and she looks away, maybe hearing what I’m not saying, or choosing not to.
I clear my throat and turn my attention to the bike.
“Alright, Penny, the first step to fixing anything is having the proper tools.” I open my toolbox, displaying the neat rows of wrenches, screwdrivers, and pliers.
I flip the bike upside down, balancing it on the seat and handlebars. The chain has slipped off the gears and gotten wedged between the frame and the rear sprocket.
I walk her through the basics—how to isolate the master link, where to push on the chain to loosen it, how the derailleur works. I select a wrench from the toolbox and show her how to unscrew the bolt securing the back wheel. “Sometimes you have to make a little extra room before you can fix the real problem. Kind of like when your bedroom is too messy to find something and you’ve got to move stuff around.”
