He takes the lid off, picks up a cookie, looks at me questioningly.These good?he seems to ask.
I raise my eyebrows to answer,Eat it and find out.
I realize I’m nervous to share my baking with him. It’s... vulnerable, in a way, because there’s a story behind everything I bake. A memory of my grandparents or of my childhood. Every cookie is personal to me.
Which, I realize, is a little ridiculous.
He nods in capitulation and takes a bite. His face changes, looking pleasantly surprised.
“You made these?” he asks with a mouthful.
“Yes.”
He closes his eyes, nodding, like this will enhance the experience somehow. “That’s good.” He looks at me.
“Thanks.” The nervousness melts away, and I’m oddly proud that he likes them.
In another weird moment of honesty, I say, “I’m not used to needing people’s help.” A pause. “So, thanks.”
The irony of that statement isn’t lost on me.I’m not used to needing helpimplies I’m a strong, competent woman.
Which is, of late, the opposite of how I feel.
There’s an awkward pause, so I give a little wave and turn to go.
“Oh, wait, Claire.” He stops me. “I wanted to... There’s something I should, um, probably tell you...”
He screws up his face and points to the corner of the building over my shoulder. I turn, not knowing what he’s indicating, but then my eyes focus on something mounted to the side, just above the awnings over the windows.
It’s a camera.
My eyes dart to the other corners of the courtyard.
There are cameras on every corner of the building. I count at least six.
I whip back around to him, eyes wide, panicked. Did some security guard see my nearly nude escapades last night? Was I half naked on a bank of screens somewhere? Did someone take that footage and is now uploading it to...
He immediately holds up a hand, seemingly knowing what my distressed face is silently screaming.
“I erased it.”
I stare into his eyes, looking for a joke or a dig. I find nothing except honesty.
“You—” I start.
He nods. “It’s fine. No one saw anything. I didn’t even rewatch it.” He pauses and smiles slightly. “Three times, tops. But no more than that.”
I burst out a nervous laugh, shaking my head. “You’re the worst,” I say, and then after a pause, “but seriously... thank you.”
He smiles.
I smile.
We stand there for a beat too long, and then I start to walk away, but he follows me, stepping barefoot onto the rug in front of his door.
“Where are you headed today?” he asks. “You look, you know, done up.”
“Job hunting,” I say, chagrined. “In an unfamiliar city with a nearly blank résumé.” I scrunch my nose, aware this might be a fool’s errand. The best I can hope for is that someone will take pity on me.
