He's out the door before I realize I never said who it was.He must've read my messages over my shoulder or something.
I wait until his truck has vanished into a cloud of dust before calling Morgan.
She answers on the second ring."Hi, Noah."
"Morgan, how are you?"
"Y'know.Busy week.I wish we'd had a chance to see each other before now."
"Me too.We've both got busy schedules, though.It's okay.We've got a chance to connect now, though, right?"
"Right."
"Have you had dinner yet?"I ask.
"I mean, no, not really.I've been snacking while trying to figure out a dinner that doesn't involve cooking."
"I made chili.Noel was over, and we did a number on it, but I've got plenty left.You said you wanted to try it, right?"
"I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"
"Let's just say he saw me texting you, put two and two together, and suddenly remembered that he had to wash his hair."
She laughs at this, and god it feels good to make her laugh."It's an all-day process for him, too, huh?"
"All jokes aside, he can be surprisingly vain sometimes, my son.The messy hair look doesn't happen by accident, apparently."
“Obviously.Beauty is never accidental."A pause."You're sure I'm not intruding or interrupting?”
"I'm sure.I'll shoot my address over to you."
"See you soon, then."
"Can't wait."
I toss the phone onto the counter, take a breath…and promptly freak the fuck out.
Morgan Wheeler is coming over.
Here.
To my house.
I look around and realize I'm definitely not ready for a guest.There are dishes in the sink, a basket of clean laundry on the ottoman that I've been intending to fold and put away for…um…a few days.
Fine, weeks.
A month?
Fuck off.I hate doing laundry, okay?It's just easier to leave the basket of clean laundry on the ottoman, grab what I need, get dressed, and toss the dirty clothes right into the washer when I get home.
Without Tornado Taylor around anymore, things just don't run the way they used to around here; "Tornado Taylor" was my affectionate term for what happened when my dear wife decided it looked too much like people lived here.She'd turn into Taz from Looney Tunes and whirl around the house like an inverse wrecking ball, tidying and cleaning and polishing and dusting and I don't even know what else—she'd shoo me out of the house to keep me out of the way.
I do my best version of Tornado Taylor, loading the dishwasher at warp speed without even rinsing them—which I’m sure will come back to bite me in the ass later, but for now, they're out of sight—tossing the clean laundry basket into the laundry room and closing the door, running the vacuum over the rug under the living room furniture, making sure the guest and primary bathrooms are at least not bachelor-pad filthy.
I pause in the doorway of the bedroom, staring at my unmade bed: another thing Taylor always did that I never do.
Fuck.
