I poke his side, and he catches my hand, then squeezes it. He curls my arm across his stomach, resting it at his waist, then sinks his hand into my hair and scratches at my scalp. My eyes fall shut. I turn to goo when he does this.
“Dat feels nice,” I tell him. “But I’m stiw mad about da photo.”
He laughs softly. “I’ll keep it in my private folder—how’s that for a compromise?”
I answer with a squeeze to his waist hard enough to make him curse under his breath. And then I tell him, “I wuf you, Awex.”
He rubs his cheek against my hair and breathes in. “I wuf you, too, Ted.”
CHAPTER 7THEN
July 20, two summers ago
The windows are open to a muggy July night. The sun set hours ago, leaving behind a bruised blue-black sky. My third-floor apartment’s temperature is earth’s-core-molten. Or, according to my thermostat, eighty-five degrees.
I sit slumped against the refrigerator, taking in the state of the place—half-assembled IKEA bookshelves, stacks of books along the wall, too many moving boxes to count, my dog sprawled in front of my thrifted box fan.
“Well,” I tell the dog, “I probably need to suck it up and call the property manager again about fixing the AC.”
Argos lifts his head and makes one of his throaty almost-human sounds. Then he plops back down.
“Hey, now.” I stroke my hand down his head. “A voicemail counts as a call. Did the property manager text or call me back last week to confirm he’d received that voicemail? No. But I still called.”
Argos lets out another almost-human throaty noise. I reach for the fan to bring it closer, then slump sideways onto the floor beside him.
“The apartment looks like a bomb went off in it.”
Argos whines and sets his paw on my hand.
“Good point,” I tell him. “Before this evening, I’d hardly unpacked. So it might not be tidy, but at least I’ve gotten started, right?”
I pluck at my sweaty tank top plastered to my skin, my gaze wandering out the window. Across the street, two people sit on a balcony, shadowy silhouettes lit by a glowing waxing gibbous moon. I hear their laughter, the clink of silverware. Which makes me think of food. My stomach growls.
Argos lifts his head, eyes wide.
“Don’t worry, pup,” I tell him. “This is just what stomachs do when they’re cavernously empty.”
After I got off work, I came straight home, determined to actually get my apartment unpacked. With my work schedule the next few days, there is not a lot of time between now and Tuesday for all the zhuzhing I have left to do before Lauren comes over.
I told myself I’d stop once I’d tackled a few hours of unpacking. But then I got in the unpacking zone and before I knew it, five hours had passed. Now the time says it’s too late for any kind of takeout dinner. Or gelato.
I am lightheaded, overheated, and extremely hungry.
“I think,” I tell my dog, “now is when I scrounge around these boxes until I find the jar of Jif and gorge myself.”
Argos drops his head on a distinct “harumph.” Figures, the one truly human sound my dog makes is a sound of disapproval.
A buzz to my right makes me jump. In this hellscape of anapartment, whose only and most important attractive feature is its dirt-cheap rent, I am prepared for the worst—murder hornets, rabid racoons, a plague of locusts.
But it’s just my phone. I pick it up and then nearly drop it. Alex texted.
At risk of sounding like an absolute downer, is it just me or has this week been really bad?
I sigh as I type,The baddest.
Sorry it’s been rough for you, too, Ted. How you hanging in?he asks.
I glance around my apartment, then type,Hanging in as well as could be expected for someone who’s about to eat a jar of Jif for dinner. You?
