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“Need a hand?” I ask, offering a smile.
“No, I couldn’t possibly impose.” He resumes his awkward struggle, grunting as he hefts the table.
I don’t reply, just climb in and help. He doesn’t protest, accepting my help before adding, “If you keep this up, I’m not sure I can afford whatever payment you’ll want.”
“Maybe we can work out a payment plan,” I joke as we maneuver the table through the building’s narrow entrance.
Somehow, we manage to wrestle the table all the way up to his apartment and through the door. Inside, I notice something odd: between all the boxes and furniture, there’s no bed.
“Where do you sleep?” I ask, scanning the room.
“Pull-out couch,” he says, patting the one I helped him haul up yesterday. “I move a lot.”
I blink, waiting for his answer to make sense.
He seems to realize his answer doesn’t quite satisfy, so he adds, “Just a few more small boxes and I’ll be done. Maybe I can start paying you back with dinner?”
My stomach betrays me with a loud growl. “Dinner sounds nice. Did you have somewhere fancy in mind?”
He grins. “There’s a place around the corner, Ray’s Famous Pizza. They claim to have the best pizza in Manhattan!”
I laugh at first, thinking he’s joking, but when I realize he’s serious, I can’t help but laugh harder. Between desperate gasps, I manage, “There must be a dozen places in Manhattan alone called Ray’s, and they all claim to have the best pizza.”
Kevin’s expression wilts a little. “Are they a chain?”
I catch my breath. “No, I think they’re all competing with each other.”
He wilts a little more, and I realize I’ve just trampled a genuinely kind gesture.
If his hands weren’t full, he’d be twiddling his thumbs. “Oh, uh, maybe somewhere else then?” he mutters.
“No, no!” I blurt, scrambling to salvage the moment. “If it’s the place I’m thinking of, it is actually pretty good pizza.”
His smile returns, just a little. “Alright, then I’ll get us a Ray’s pretty good pizza.”
I nod. “Tell you what, give me a twenty, and I’ll grab the pizza while you finish unloading the last boxes.”
His smile deepens. “That would be wonderful.”
He fishes a crumpled bill from his wallet, and half an hour later I’m back at his apartment, holding what the guy at the counter insisted was one of the finest, greasiest large cheese pizzas NYC has to offer, plus two bottles of water.
Inside, I find Kevin sorting boxes. “Your pizza, sir.”
“And they deliver,” he teases.
He grabs a roll of paper towels, and we sit catty-corner at the table I helped him carry up. I hand him a slice, and we cheers, tapping our greasy wedges together before digging in.
One bite and we both freeze, savoring that unique swirl of savory, salty, and fatty that is New York pizza. For me, it’s the joy of my first real slice in weeks, not just a quick bite or styrofoam takeout. But Kevin looks floored, the flavors rioting across his face.
After a long, thoughtful chew, he swallows. “This is just pretty good?”
I laugh, a bright, unburdened sound I didn’t know I could make. The kind I haven’t made in a long time. “And there are a dozen other places claiming they can do it better.”
“Sounds like I’ll be paying you back for a while, then,” he says, taking another bite.
I doubt he notices how I blush, how his casual comments strike at my core. It’s frustrating; hotter guys have hit on me, flirted harder, yet here’s Kevin, eating pizza, and I have to remind myself not to move too fast.
He catches me staring between bites of pizza. After washing down his first slice and wiping his hands, he stands.
