Chapter two
Sully
Two identical doors side by side, as if the building had copy-pasted them, with brushed nickel handles, the same wood grain, and matching three-digit plates at eye level. I'd walked into the wrong one twice in eight months, which was either a floor-plan problem or a me problem. I went with the floor plan. It was the kinder option.
My door was to the left. I unlocked it and went in. The friends I had over were gone.
I'd paused Spotify, and the music picked up where I'd left it, halfway through "Dreams," with Stevie Nicks spilling her grievances. I dropped my keys on the counter, and they skidded toward the edge. I caught them before they fell. It was probably the most coordinated thing I'd done all evening.
I couldn't stop thinking about Pratt's place. It wasn't the layout. It was the atmosphere. Nothing was waiting to be put away.
He had the counter clear and the other surfaces too. I saw a stack of books not yet shelved, but the stack was straight. Thelamp rested in its box, flush against the baseboard, like he'd decided where it should wait.
Who decides where a box waits?
I opened the fridge. Grabbed the half-finished bottle of white and poured it into a rocks glass.
He had my spare key.
I'd walked over with wine, expecting at least a moderate amount of friction. It wouldn't be outright rejection, but maybe alet me think about it. He'd looked at the key, listened to the tall guy I thought I recognized, and taken it.
The whole thing had the quality of a toll booth. I'd handed something over; he'd received it; the bar had lifted, and I'd driven through.
I drained the glass and set it in the sink.
In my living room, in the corner, sat a printer in its original box. I'd mentioned the dishes, but not this. I'd purchased it in October during a brief period of misplaced ambition. In over three months, I hadn't needed to print a single thing. The box had started to feel like a silent roommate.
Pratt had my key. I hadn’t asked for anything back. It had happened sideways—wrong door and apology bottle—and it still felt right.
It was either good instinct or a warning sign, and I'd always had trouble telling the difference.
I flopped onto my couch and put my feet up on the coffee table. Mom taught me never to do that, but adult me didn't listen.
My living room operated on the principle that space was for occupying, and my couch faced the kitchen so you could talk to whoever was cooking. My rug was a size too large for the room, and when Dara from 4C pointed it out, I'd spent two days reconsidering before leaving it in place.
I had two plants on the sill, both alive and wary about the three predecessors I'd killed. It was a room designed for use.
I'd expected more. Everyone responded to my energy. They matched it, softened it, leaned into it, or pushed back against it, engaging with it as a thing. Pratt didn’t. He listened and answered as if that part didn’t matter.
I tried to place him in a category and couldn't. I was mad skilled at categorizing. It was a crucial talent working behind a bar. You assessed fast and filed correctly, or the night fell apart. Pratt resisted filing.
Despite the charm. Possibly around the charm. My charm had been, in the final accounting, beside the point.
I leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. A grin filled my face before I could stop it.
Gay man, near-certain, on the other side of my wall. He hung out with the two guys on his team who everyone knew were a couple. I recognized them from that.
He was a professional athlete. Gay. Muscular. My neighbor. And he had my spare key.
I slept until eleven, which meant I woke in the building's late-morning quiet. Everyone with a nine-to-five schedule was already gone. The hallways were quiet, and the elevator was idle. A bartender's hours landed in the odd period between the daytime and graveyard shifts.
Glancing at my phone, I saw a text from my sister. I'd successfully avoided the family group chat about my brother's plan to leave Boston. It had apparently gone feral overnight.
There was a scheduling notification from the bar.
The best one was a photo from my college roommate of his kid doing something inadvisable with a fork. He captioned itlol, and I found it funny enough to laugh out loud too.
I showered, dressed in whatever order my hands found things, and checked my pockets.
