“Yes,” she says, a smile breaking over her face. “I’d love to run it. Would you really trust me to do that?”
“Of course, if I can make it work financially. And we have to make sure we can evengeta booth; there’s probably a bit of competition. But we do need to start making plans to move out of here, and I think the booth is a great idea.”
She bounces on the spot, beaming. “I knew it! This could totally work.”
I grin, feeling an odd sense of relief. I haven’t wanted to think about the next move, instead focusing on clearing our vintage stock and making new stuff. But this is the perfect solution.
“So…” Hayley turns to straighten up the display table in front of the counter. “Myles is cute. Seems like your type, too.”
I give a huff of amusement. “Uh, why?”
“You know. The tattoos, the clothes, the hair. Like Mark.” She lifts a shoulder, as if it’s obvious.
“Yes, well. That might have been my type in the past,” I say. I ignore the unusual twinge in my stomach as I add, “But it’s definitely not anymore.”
13
Myles lives in a basement apartment out on Avenue D, Alphabet City. It’s—well, I’m not going to lie—it’s a bit of a dump, at least from the outside. There’s graffiti all down the side of the building and a collection of trash cans right on his doorstep. As I climb down the steps and knock on the door, I can’t help but wonder if I should have suggested we meet at my place. But he’s doing all this work for me, for free, so it’s only fair that I come out here. I owe him, big time.
I glance down at where I’m clutching my hands together, empty. Should I have brought something? A bottle of wine, maybe?
No, that would be stupid. It’s not like this is a party, or anything. This is… something else. This is a work thing.
The door swings open and Myles gives me an easy grin. “Hey.”
“Hi,” I say, stepping past him into the apartment. I’m hit by the smell of a fresh, zesty cologne, like he’s just spritzed himself. My eyes sweep around the space, taking it all in. And by “all” I mean, well, not a whole lot.
It’s a studio, and it’s pretty small—though it’s not as bad inside as I thought it would be. With eggshell-white walls and hardwood flooring, it’s surprisingly bright and clean. But it’s so sparse: down the back there’s a bed sitting on a bunch of wooden pallets tucked behind a partition wall, opposite a beat-up dresser. On the wall beside the bed he’s pinned a map of the USA, and underneath it is a yoga mat and a meditation cushion. In the living space to my right, there’s a single thread-bare sofa and an ottoman with a couple of books sitting on top. To my left is a small kitchen that looks like it hasn’t been touched. Afternoon light spills in from the windows behind us, giving the whole place a sort of ethereal glow. He doesn’t even have curtains.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks, wandering into the kitchen.
“Sure.” I turn back to him, frowning. “Are you moving, or something?”
“What?” He emits a bewildered laugh, taking two bottles of water from the fridge. “No.”
“Where’s all your stuff?”
He glances around the room. “This is my stuff. I don’t own much.”
“Oh.” I feel a pang of sympathy. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might not make much working at Bounce. No wonder he flirts his ass off for extra tips. Guilt gnaws at me as I think about the fact that he’s doing all this work for me for free, when he could probably use the money.
He tilts his head, examining my expression. “What?”
“Uh—” I blush, hoping my thoughts aren’t evident on my face. “Nothing.” That’s it, I decide; as soon as I can afford it, I’m going to start paying him for his work. No one should have to live without decent furniture and curtains. This isn’t a home.
I take my bottled water and wander around, casting my eyes over his few belongings. When I get to the yoga mat and cushion, I glance back with a smile. “You’re really into the meditation and yoga thing, huh?”
“Yep.” He hauls himself up onto the kitchen island, dangling his legs. “Have you gone to any more classes?”
I shake my head.
“You should,” he urges. “It’s tough at first but it’s so powerful. It helps to clear your mind, so you can hear yourself.”
“I hear myself just fine,” I mutter, sipping my water. I hear myself too much—my mind won’t shut up.
He chuckles. “Sure, but when you meditate, you hear yourtrueself. And when your true self speaks, it cuts through the bullshit. You know it’s speaking the truth.”
“Mm,” I say, giving him a faint smile. What new-age malarkey is this?
