“He should confront his jealousy instead of belittling you. It’s really not a good look for him.”
“Probably not, but I’m guilty of it too.”
Liam was my second roommate in college. After Franco and my relationship crashed and burned the first time, Franco moved out and Liam moved in. He was a year younger, but because of his academic achievements, Liam began his undergrad in the upper-level classes. He was a gifted poet on the brink of something great. If only he could get past some of his hang-ups.
Arden stopped in front of an old brick building on Newell Street that appeared to have been recently renovated. We entered through the lobby where I noticed a door to a small workout room and an area for lounging.
“Do you mind if we take the stairs?” Arden asked.
I wondered if that was a relic from his upbringing—a distrust of mechanical contraptions. I hoped he was vaccinated. Should I ask?
“Must be hard to avoid elevators in New York City,” I said when we reached the stairwell.
Arden shrugged. “There’s a reason my ass is so tight.”
The air left my lungs, and I could only stare at the ass in question. Was that an invitation?
“You do have a nice ass,” I said once I’d recovered. “And well-fitting pants.”
He flashed me a smile over his shoulder. “And my face isn’t bad either.”
“And those abs.” I didn’t want to objectify him, but he seemed to like the attention. “You probably hear that a lot.”
“It never gets old. Self-absorbed, remember?”
He wasn’t even breathing heavily. Meanwhile, my lungs were aching. I had to pause and catch my breath at the top of our last flight.
“Here we are,” Arden said and unlocked the door.
The inside was pristine, like a model home. There was a couch and a coffee table with clean lines, a few magazines meticulously arranged, and a neatly folded blanket. His kitchen counters were empty of everything except for a bowl of fruit and a vase of fresh flowers. There were no magnets or notices on his refrigerator, no knick-knacks or artwork on the walls. It was almost clinical in its austerity, and it reminded me of his social media. Did he really live here?
“Not much of a collector, are you?” I asked.
“I hoard like a dragon. All my favorite things are in my bedroom. Come look.”
He was right about that. His bed was made but along two of the walls were hundreds of books, some in milk crates, some simply stacked in tall, precarious towers. They were mostly trade paperback—mystery, sci-fi, and horror—but there were classics and hardbacks as well. Another wall was lined with freestanding racks of clothing, like what a bellboy might use to transport luggage.
“It’s like my nonna’s storage unit,” I said.
“We can go out to the living room if you’re feeling claustrophobic.”
“No, it’s… interesting.” I fingered the material of one of his fancy dress shirts before realizing how presumptuous it was. “May I?” Arden nodded, still looking a little embarrassed. “Do you wear all of these?” I pointed to a brightly colored tunic with a tribal pattern.
“I have at one time or another. Most were given to me after a shoot. I’m not really a fashionista, but they’re so nice to look at. I used to sew a bit, and I love fabric.”
My eyes landed on a pink, cable-knit sweater, one that I recognized. “Will you wear this?” I asked.
He grinned shyly. “Right now?”
I nodded. I’d looked at that particular photo too many times to miss the opportunity.
Arden unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it over a wicker hamper. I handed him the soft sweater, and he shrugged into it. He looked even better than in the picture. His face was flushed, perhaps from the climb, and his freckles were more visible too. I could imagine him as an adolescent, bony and angular, still growing into his height with sunburnt cheeks and hair bleached by the sun.
“Pink’s your color,” I said.
“All the colors of the rainbow belong to me,” he said and hugged himself campily.
Another compliment was on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t want to overdo it. He’d invited me into his bedroom—his sanctuary—but I was still working up the nerve to make a move.
