Page 19 of Faking the Heat

He leans in, elbows on his knees. “So, tell me how it’s going with your ‘roommate’.”

I try a smile, but my muscle memory is weak. “Fine. We set up a system. Dishes, laundry, bathroom schedule. She even got a color, coded dry erase calendar for the fridge.”

Jake makes a face. “Sounds like pure erotic hell.”

“Very funny.”

“Hey, man, you’re the one who used to live alone for the express purpose of not having to negotiate fridge rights. Now you’re sharing your, what, your couch, your shower caddy, your Monday Night Football privileges?”

I cross my arms, partly for effect, partly because the season has shifted and I’m cold and the heater in the locker room is the only thing less reliable than the hot water.

Jake tilts his head. “You do realize it’s okay to admit when you like someone, right?”

“Of course I like her,” I say, with the inflection you’d use if someone asked if you enjoyed breathing oxygen. “She’s my best friend.”

He raises both eyebrows. “So why do you look like you’re trying to solve a hostage crisis every time someone brings her up?”

I want to tell him it’s because Mandy is the kind of person who gets behind your perimeter before you’ve even called a briefing, and that I am not equipped to manage that level of occupation on top of a 60- hour work week and a city that is, at any given time, actively on fire. I want to tell him it’s because she moves through my apartment like she’s always lived there, and that it feels less like I invited her in and more like she let me rent space in her world.

I want to say these things, but I don’t. What I say is, “I’m fine, Jake. You don’t have to play Dr. Phil.”

“You sure about that?” He pats my head and I frown. “You are backstroking in a river of denial my friend.”

I laugh, but it’s hollow. “Look, nothing’s changed. She’s still Mandy. I’m still me. We eat Chinese food, we binge shitty TV, we argue about whose turn it is to take out the trash.”

Jake gives me a slow nod. “And?”

“And what?”

He smirks. “You’ve been going on dates again. Lot of them, actually. Noticed you’ve been coming back early.”

“Stalker.”

“Dodger.”

I set the logbook down. “So, I’m dating. That’s a crime now?”

“Nope.” He takes a long pull from the shake. “Just interesting timing. You used to space them out. Take your time. Now it’s like you’re running a tryout schedule.”

I think about the nurse and the parks employee. How I’d sat across from both of them and kept doing the math, kept waiting for something to add up to something else entirely.

“Maybe I’m just being efficient.”

Jake looks at me. “You came back from that last one at nine-thirty on a Saturday.”

I don’t say anything. Jake lives in my building, but I didn’t think he paid much attention to anything around him.

“Nine-thirty,” he repeats, like he’s reading it into evidence. “On a Saturday, Sterling.”

I stare at the middle distance. “We ran out of things to talk about.”

“Or,” Jake says, “you already knew what you wanted to talk about. Just not with her.”

I flex my hands, then relax them, then do it again, just to feel something in the fingers. “I don’t know, man. Maybe I’m just out of practice.”

Jake looks at me for a long second, then laughs, the sound echoing off the tile like a bark. “Saint Sterling. Patron Saint of hoe saving is out of practice?” He shakes his head. “No way. More like you finally have an opponent who can play at your level.”

“Are we still talking about Mandy, or did you switch to Mario Kart?”