Hunter smirks at her and then continues into the kitchen, ignoring me. He’s wearing a fitted white T-shirt and dark-gray gym shorts, his muscular back and the curve of his chest, the size of his biceps and toned calves all on display. His wavy hair is disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it again. It’s amazing to me how I barely even take note of his scars and skin grafts anymore. They’re a part of him, but not the most interesting part.
“Hey, Lou, did you drink the rest of the milk?” he calls from the kitchen.
“Nope, not me.” She opens her computer and pulls her glasses back down.
I wait for him to call me out next, but he doesn’t say anything, merely shuts the fridge and moves on. My stomach sinks. I’m more confused by Hunter than ever. Ever since I got home from the hospital a couple of days ago, he’s beenavoiding me. I even asked him if we could go over his ideas for Konditori last night, and he shrugged and said, “Sure, sometime,” before retreating to his half of the duplex. The charts still sit in an untouched pile on the table.
When he emerges from the kitchen, he’s holding a protein bar. “I added milk to the grocery list,” he says, refusing to look at me even though it’s supposed to be my turn to go to the store. We all pitch in on the basics since he still doesn’t have a fridge, stove, or running water. Though the latest update was hopefully at least water by next week.
“Okay, thanks, I’ll make sure to get more skim since I know it’s your favorite,” I tease, hoping forsomeindication that he knows I’m alive.
“Whatever you want,” is all he says, the words stilted, and he continues to avoid eye contact.
Lou glances at me over her computer, then sideways at Hunter. “You hate skim milk.”
Hunter runs his hand through his hair and says, “I don’t care that much.” His T-shirt pulls up at the movement, revealing his flat abs and a trail of dark hair underneath his belly button that disappears below the waistband of his shorts.
I gulp down more tea because my throat is suddenly dry.
“This coming from the boy who made his mom find an open store onThanksgivingto buy him whole milk for his cereal because all we had was 1 percent?” Lou calls him out.
Hunter scowls at her. “That was a long time ago. A lot has changed since I waseight. I don’t care what kind of milk you get.”
“I can get whatever kind you want,” I offer, bewildered about why we’re arguing over milk—and why he still won’t look at me.
Hunter’s gaze finally flickers to mine. My heart rate immediately kicks up a notch. “It’s up to you. I really don’t care,” he repeats and looks away again.
“Fine,” I say, trying to suppress a sudden surge of irritation.
“Fine,” he echoes.
Lou’s eyebrows rise, but she doesn’t look up from her computer this time, busily clicking away at the keys.
“I’m going to bed,” he announces and strides away with his protein bar.
“Good night!” Lou calls after him, then says more quietly to me, “Well, he’s in a mood tonight.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I knew I shouldn’t have let my guard down with him. The crisis is over, and so, apparently, is his kind streak.
I hesitate for a moment, then grab my mug and stand up. “I better try to get some sleep too. Good luck with closing your loan.”
“Thanks,” she says. “Good luck getting some sleep.”
I take my tea and move as fast as I dare without making it obvious that I’m trying to catch Hunter.
When I reach the front room, he’s walking out the door. I rush after him, but he’s already gone through the second door into his condo. I shove my arm out right before he is about to close it and push my way in.
The place is still torn apart, eighteen inches of Sheetrock ripped off the wall from the flooding, and the flooring is torn out. It makes me feel bad that he’s living like this.
“If you’re determined to follow me, at least close the door,” he says over his shoulder, ignoring me and continuing up the stairs.
I hurry, taking the stairs two at a time, some of my tea splashing out of the mug I’m still holding. I catch him as he turns the handle to one of the rooms.
“Hunter,” I say, and he stiffens but doesn’t turn to face me. “What’s going on here?”
“Is this about the milk again?” He sounds irritated.
“No, this is not about the stupidmilk,” I snap. “It’s aboutthis—how you won’t evenlookat me when I’m talking to you! How you’re avoiding me like I got leprosy while I was in the hospital or something.”
