I take a few tentative steps toward my apartment. He dodged the accusation, or just didn’t give it any mind, which is good because it was a jerky thing for me to say. “Yes.”
“But this is Chinese food,” he says, nodding at the bags.
“And?”
“You’ve never had Chinese takeout before?”
By his face I can tell he doesn’t mean this to be insulting. Just curious. In a vulnerable slip, I admit, “My ex-husband didn’t like it.”
He gives me a slow nod, like he’s sorting something out about me, and I shift because I don’t like feeling like I’m in his crosshairs.
“Let me know how you like it,” he says. “The dumplings aresomuch better with the ginger sauce.”
He smiles. And that’s that.
I’m having trouble reconciling how he’s acting with what I’ve decided about him. For me, it’s not a leap to look at a man apparently dating two younger women and immediately think of my own history. But my experience isn’t everyone’s experience.
And this man is not John.
It’s an unfair conclusion to jump to.
As I’m mentally debating, he walks over to a large flowerpot on the opposite side of my door. He fishes around in the center of the plants and pulls out a small black box. He opens it and holds up a key.
“What is that?”
He frowns. “It’s a key.” His tone says,Duh.
“To my apartment?”
“Everyone has one hidden somewhere,” he says.
“And you just happen to know where mine is?” I ask.
“Lucky for you, yes.”
“How?”
“Because I’m the one who put it there.” He pauses. “You’re welcome.”
I shift. “Why did you hide a key to my apartment in the plants?”
“Because people lock themselves out all the time,” he says, moving toward my door. “The safety feature is great... until it’s not.” He sticks the key in the lock and turns.
“But why didyouhide them?”
“Oh, uh, because I own the building.” He shrugs.
“Youownthe building,” I say.
Realization sets in.
“You own the building.”
“Yep.”
He turns the key and opens my door, motioning with one arm for me to walk through.
I step inside my apartment in a daze, then turn back. He sets the other bags just inside the door.
