I turn and see that Drew’s returned with an armful of sheets and a pillow. Fortunately, he doesn’t look like he minds me looking at his books.
He starts to make up the bed, and I jump to help. “I can do that,” I offer, grabbing the other side of a blue plaid fitted sheet. It feels oddly domestic to be doing this together.
“The bathroom’s across the hall,” he says when we’ve made the bed. “I have an ensuite off my bedroom, so you’ll have this one to yourself. I put a new toothbrush in the drawer.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.”
I nod, and wish I’d taken him up on his offer to stop at my apartment so I could get pajamas. I could sleep in myunderwear, but if I have to use the bathroom in the night, I’ll have to cross the hall to do it. And there’s a chance—an infinitesimal, but not zero chance—that Drew will be up, and he’ll see me crossing the hall in my underwear.
So unless I want to risk that, I’ll either need to sleep in my clothes or put them back on before any middle of the night bathroom trips. Unless . . .
“Do you think I could borrow a t-shirt to sleep in?” I ask.
There’s a beat of silence before he answers. “Sure. Yeah. Of course,” he finally says. “I’ll grab one.”
He disappears for a moment, then returns with a dark green t-shirt. “This okay?”
“Great.” I say, taking it from him. It has the comfortable softness of something that’s been washed a hundred times.
I set the t-shirt on top of the pillow, then follow him back to the living room. Drew grabs himself a Perrier too, and we sit on opposite ends of the sofa. There’s a new tension in his posture, and I don’t understand it. I wonder if he had other plans for tonight, or if he has work to do.
“I’ll be fine, if you’ve got other stuff to do,” I tell him. “I might even borrow one of your books.”
Once again, it takes him a minute to answer. “No, no. I don’t—do you want to watch TV?”
“Sure.”
He grabs a remote from an end table and flicks the TV on. “You can pick a show,” he says, handing me the remote.
“What kind of stuff do you like?”
“I don’t watch much TV,” he says. “We can watch whatever you want.”
“I started watchingGrace Generalon my phone this afternoon,” I suggest.
“That’s fine.”
“I made it to episode four,” I say as I flick through the Netflix menu. “But we could start at the beginning if you want.”
“Nah, pick up where you left off,” he says easily. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”
So I hit play on episode four, which opens with a couple of residents doing CPR on a patient in the ER.
“I don’t think they should have tried to defibrillate there,” Drew remarks. “That heart rhythm wouldn’t respond to a shock.”
“I guess that’s why it didn’t work,” I reply, as the on-screen team restarts chest compressions.
Drew lets me know whenever he finds something unbelievable, which happens roughly every two minutes. By the time our food arrives, the tension between us has disappeared, and I’m left wondering if I imagined it.
My phone rings as we’re finishing dinner, and my landlord’s name flashes across the screen.
“It’s my landlord,” I tell Drew apologetically, as I swipe to answer it. “Hi, Robbie.”
“Hey, Ally,” Robbie says. “I got your text, I can swing by now to take a look at things.”
“Okay. I’m not home right now?—”
