If he thinks it’s odd, he doesn’t reveal it, telling me where to go. In the elevator, I keep my hands tucked into my pockets, my head down, not wanting to see anyone or anything until I get to her. And when the doors ping and open, she’s there, standing right in front of them, dressed like I haven’t seen her since that first day—sleek, fitted dress, this one black, a green cardigan buttoned over top. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, her lips glossy pink. For a second, I think I must visibly deflate at seeing her this way.What I wanted,I think,wasmyZoe.
“Aiden?” she says, her brow furrowed. I pause so long that she has to hold a hand out to stop the doors from reclosing, so I step out, expecting to make this quick. I notice, for the first time, that she’s notwearing shoes.
“Sorry,” I manage to grind out. “I don’t know why I came. I should’ve figured—fuck.” It dawns on me what Zoe must be doing, dressed like that. “Fuck, is this your first day? I’m an asshole.” Behind everything I’m feeling is a whisper of satisfaction that she’s doing it, that she took the leap, same as she did this weekend, when I was so proud of her that I feltlike I’d burst.
“It’s not my first day,” she says, quickly, sharply, that voice I wanted to hear. “I was making breakfast.”
“Dressed like that?”
She looks down at herself, then back up at me. “Aiden,” she says again, her tone serious. “Tell mewhat happened.”
“Bad night at work.” It’s all I can stand saying about it, at least right now. “Only thing I could think was—I don’t know. Just came here.”
Her face flushes, and she looks—she looks soalive. I focus on her face, ignoring the prickle of unease I feel at seeing her in her professional clothes, a sense memory of something ugly between us. “Come have breakfast withme,” she says.
“I probably shouldn’t. I didn’t think this through. Ineed a shower.”
“You’ve got clothes in your car?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Go get them. You can shower here. The code for the front is star 1631. I’ll leave my door unlocked. We’ll have eggs and toast. Would you likecoffee or tea?”
Thank God for her professionalism, for that starched-up way she looks. My body feels like it’s loosened a little as she’s given me these instructions.
“Coffee,” I say, and proceed to follow every one.
* * * *
When I step out of Zoe’s bathroom after my shower, I feel normal enough, less fuzzy headed and shocked, to take in my surroundings. Zoe’s place isn’t big, but it’s expensive looking, wide-open space for the kitchen, dining room, and living area, almost everything in shades of white or pale gray, a dark wood floor beneath. If I weren’t in here myself, if I hadn’t just washed my hair with a shampoo that smells like her, I wouldn’t even believe someone lives here. There are no family photos, no stacks of mail or tangled cords sticking out from the plugs, no pairs of shoes resting by the door. On the marble island she has a glass bowl filled with lemons, the only spot of color in the place except for her. She holds the phone to her ear with one hand, speaking quietly; the other she uses to pour coffee from a French press into a white mug. When she looks up and sees me, she offers a small smile, nods for me to sitat the island.
She ends her call and shuts off her phone, setting it out of the wayon the counter.
“I’m sorry if I messed upyour morning.”
“You didn’t. I got an early start today. I don’t need to be anywhere for a little while.” She turns away, busies herself with plates and silverware that she sets in front of me. She opens the oven and peeks in, same with the broiler drawer underneath, and within minutes she’s served me a huge portion of eggs, fat slices of toast alongside it, a small white dish of butter set onto my plate, already perfectly softened.
And then, Zoe just—talks. She’s not much of a cook, she says, but her dad used to make big breakfasts. That’s why she likes going for brunch with her friends, but she’s pretty good at the basics, eggs and toast like what we’re eating now. Once, she tells me, during a particularly rough stretch of weeks at her job, she’d fallen asleep at the breakfast bar where we’re sitting while she waited for her frittata to cook, and she’d had a small fire that she’d had to pay a hefty fine to the condo board for. She’s on that board, and they’re in the middle of a complicated vote about new equipment to purchase for the fitness center. She likes it here, mostly, though when Kit bought her place she thought about a house. Then again—she says, having the conversation entirely with herself—Kit’s house is a little shabby, under construction all the time, and sometimes she comes home from there and has to take a bath to relax. “I like simplicity,” she says, gesturing around her with her fork. “In case youcouldn’t tell.”
In the pauses she takes to sip her coffee, or to take a bite of her food, I realize that I too am relaxing, bit by bit. Zoe has filled up all the space in my head with this chatter, these details that don’t matter really but somehowdo, the little things about her life that get me out of that rig, that stop me thinking about death and failure and being just a few minutes too late. She talks all through the meal, and she talks when we stand to clear our plates, when I rinse them and she slides them into the dishwasher, when she takes a white towel from the edge of the sink and wipes her smooth, perfecthands with it.
The truth is, I want to fall at her feet, to press my face right against her middle and cling to her in great, aching gratitude for the way she’s chased away the worst of this morning. But that’s not who we’ve been to each other, not so far. We’ve touched each other in all kinds of ways—for show, for sex, and last weekend, for celebration—but not really for comfort. So I settle for a gruff, inadequate, “Thank you.”
She shrugs, refolding the towel and placing it back in its spot. When she looks at me, she’s calm, assessing, completely untroubled by my strange presence here, or at least she’s doing a damn fine performance. “Want to walk me to work?” she asks, and then quickly corrects, “To volunteering, I mean?”
What I should say is no. On that walk I’ll have to engage in some kind of conversation, and really, I don’t think I could. What I can handle is what we’ve just had—me, quiet, and her keeping the wolves at bay. But she doesn’t stick around for my answer, slipping away into her bedroom, returning after a minute with her hiking boots on, a pair of high heels hooked on two fingers of her right hand. “Look at me,” she says. “I’ve become one ofthosepeople.”
And then she smiles at me, and I suspect I couldn’t say no if I tried. If talking is what it takes for me to stay close to her, even for just a few minutes more, I’ll fucking talk.
* * * *
“You’re nervous?” I ask her, when we’re about a block from her place. It’s cold, probably too cold for a walk. I’d offered to drive her instead once we’d cleared the front door of her building, though I’d hoped she’d say no. The cold felt good, bracing, and anyway if I drove her that’d be less time for me to take her in. “The walk will do me some good,” she’d said, and kicked one of her booted feet out in front of her. “Plus I don’t want anyone to miss this amazing outfit I’m wearing. This dress is Alexander Wang. I think the boots really make it sing.” I’d silently put Alexander Wang on my Google list and said a prayer of thanks she’d passed on my offer.
She’s quiet for a minute beside me, swinging the black tote where she’d tucked her heels, her breath puffing in white clouds in front of her. “I’m not nervous. I did a couple of hours, yesterday afternoon. It was—good. Strange good, but good.”
We stop at a crosswalk, Zoe’s shoulders up and back, her chin held high. She’s got sunglasses on, big ones, and even in the boots I can see the way she’d look, going to work every day. The two other guys who wait alongside us are both in suits, and I can see one sneaking a glance at her out the side of his eyes. I resist the urge to make him eathis briefcase.
“How strange?” I say, once we’re moving again. My hands are tucked into my pockets, Zoe’s wrapped in leather gloves that match her camel-colored coat, belted tight at her waist. I wonder what it’d feel like to walk with her hand in mine, and then make a fist in my pockets instead of grimacing at how ridiculous this thought is. It must be the hiking boots; they’re scrambling my brain. This isn’t camp, this isn’t my truck, and this isn’t my house. It’s none of the places we do this thing between us.
