Barely noticeable.
Then she spit, rinsed, shrugged.
“I’ve gotta work late anyway. And my roommate’s not feeling great again.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. She’s a grad student. Always studying. She’d just be this sad third wheel while we hang out.”
She laughed like it’s no big deal.
Like it’s obvious.
I nod. “Makes sense.”
Then, trying to sound offhand: “Where do you live again?”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Between Harvard and BC. Kind of Allston-ish? It’s mostly commercial down there. My roommate’s place from college.”
That is plausible. I’ve driven through there. Laundromats. Pizza spots. Old buildings over storefronts. Surely she’s not married or seeing someone else when she’s spent every night with me since we met.
“It’s nothing like this place,” she added quickly. “Trust me. Third-floor walk-up above a dry cleaner and take out place. Two bedrooms. Seventies kitchen. You’re not missing anything.”
She said it like a joke.
But something about the way she stacks the details?—
Too many.
Too fast.
Like she’s selling me on not going.
I smiled anyway. “I don’t care what it looks like.”
“I know.”
Then she kissed me.
And just like that, the moment dissolved.
Later, when we’re lying in bed, her head on my chest, I stare at the ceiling and think about it.
It’s not weird.
Lots of people are private.
Lots of people don’t want someone seeing their messy apartment.
Hell, half my friends would die before letting someone see their laundry pile.
Still.
I know where Chris lives.
Mark.
