When I get home at eight, Ally’s in the living room, doing some sort of Pilates-style routine with resistance bands. Her black yoga pants fit like a second skin, and her strappy blue tank top leaves her belly button visible. There’s music playing from her phone, an upbeat song that sounds familiar but I can’t place.
“Hey, Ally,” I call.
She hops up from the floor. “Hey, Drew.” She grabs her phone and stops the music. “Sorry, was it too loud?”
“No, it was fine. What song was that?”
“‘Chelsea Dagger.’ The Fratellis.”
“Ah. Your arm’s okay?”
Ally glances down at the bandage on her left arm. “Yeah, it’s fine, I’m mostly doing lower body stuff. I was thinking I might come down to the gym with you sometime.”
I go to the gym in the condo basement almost every evening. But if she wants to join me, and she wears outfits like that to work out . . . I’ll have to stop.
“You should give your arm the time it needs to heal,” I tell her. “Don’t push it.”
“I’m not,” she says. “I made chicken cacciatore for dinner, there’s a plate in the fridge for you.”
“Thanks.” Ally insisted I cancel the premade meal deliveries, and over the past few days we finished off what was already inthe fridge. Today’s the first day she’s cooked dinner, and the kitchen smells delicious.
I open the fridge and blink. It’s unusually full of food, food I’m pretty sure wasn’t there when I left this morning.
“You went grocery shopping?” I ask Ally.
“Yeah,” she says, walking over to join me in the kitchen. “After work today.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize.”
She looks confused by my reaction. “I told you I’d cook.”
“Right. Of course.” She did tell me she’d cook, so obviously she’d need to buy groceries, and I’m being an idiot. “I’d have driven you to the grocery store.”
Her brow furrows. “It wasn’t a big deal. The bus stops right in front of it, and I didn’t buy that much stuff.”
Still . . . “I’d have paid for it. I’ll reimburse you.”
“Drew,” she says with exaggerated patience. “It’s fine. You’re not charging me rent, remember?
“Yeah, but I don’t expect you to pay for my food.” The fridge beeps, because I’ve been holding the door open this whole time, and I reflexively push it closed.
Ally blinks. “So you’re not going to eat it unless I let you pay for it?”
“What? No. Of course I’m going to eat it.” I open the fridge again, find the plastic wrapped plate, and pull it out.
I’m not thinking well right now, because Ally’s standing less than two feet away. She smells faintly of peaches, probably her shampoo, and there’s an inch of skin visible between her tank top and her yoga pants.
“You should microwave that,” she suggests.
“Yeah.” I pull off the plastic wrap and pop the plate in the microwave.
Ally steps toward the sink to pour herself a glass of water, and now she’s less than a foot away. Close enough for me to see atiny bead of sweat on her temple. Close enough to reach out and touch.
“I’ll e-transfer you money for groceries,” I say abruptly.
She frowns. “I guess you can pay for half,” she says grudgingly. “I’ll send you the amount.”
“How’s work going?” I ask her. “Heather treating you all right?”
