Page 13 of The Vow

“Like what?”

“Your place. I thought you’d have your television on a milk crate like every other bachelor I know.”

I haven’t felt jealous since Anjela with a “j” betrayed me. “How many bachelors do you know?”

The annoyed look on her face reminded me of the one my mother wears when I stack the dinner plates on top of the salad plates instead of the other way around. “Typically, ‘thanks’ is the appropriate answer.”

“Thanks,” I said, somewhat surprised.

“I used to have one like this,” she said, brushing her fingers across my baby blue 1980s Brother typewriter, “except mine was red.”

“What happened to it? Did you wear down the keys with your writing?” I pictured her typing on it and in my mind’s eye, she took on the role of a naughty librarian.

“No. I wish. I had to sell it. I had to sell a lot of things.”

“I can relate to that. I know all about selling things to survive. What do you type on now?”

“Nothing. Pen and paper. Take a load off. I’ll take over pacing.”

“How do you know I was pacing?”

“Weren’t you? Go sit.”

My couch is a hand-me-down from ma’s poker buddy, Carmine, who died in his sleep. There was no next of kin, so everyone on the Sunday night poker team was named in his will. Ma didn’t want it because it clashed with her color scheme. After I stripped it from its plastic, its classic look was revealed, and I’ve grown to like the velvet cushions and wood trim. When I was a kid, I asked ma why everyone we knew kept their sofa wrapped in clear plastic. “To protect it,” she had said. “The same reason we have two kitchens. So one stays new.”

I collapsed on the couch and watched as Alex opened and closed cupboards as though she owned the place. Then I pictured what it would be like if we did live together, and life, as she put it, would never be boring.

“Don’t you have any booze in this place?”

“It’s not even noon.”

Ignoring me, she pulled something from the top shelf, and asked, “What’s this? I thought you were Italian.”

“I am.”

“It’s ravioli. In a can. You can microwave this stuff.”

“I know. Don’t tell my mother. Why do you drink so much?”

Everyone has a vice. That’s what my buddy’s grandfather used to say to justify his habit. The moment that man got out of bed, he picked up his cigar. It was like an eleventh finger.

“I’m not an alcoholic, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“It’s none of my business. Sorry.”

My house is laid out in an open concept. Ma was horrified when she saw it. She believes that the kitchen is sacred and should be its own room and not like a “peep show” or a zoo. “I’m a chef. They want to see a show, they should go to the nudie bar!”

Alex hoisted herself on to the kitchen island. With her legs dangling from it, she said, “No. I get it. You want to protect your investment.”

If she was mocking me again, I couldn’t tell by her expression. It conveyed a quiet sadness. “That’s not what I meant. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I’m afraid, okay?” she said, shifting positions so that she sat cross-legged. “I’m scared shitless most of the time, and the booze... it makes me less afraid.”

Her answer stunned me. We were kindred spirits. “What are you afraid of? What’s your story, Alex?”

Jumping down from the island, she said, “Aren’t we supposed to be focusing on Nick?”

“There’s nothing we can do about the asshole but wait. Oh, and there’s an open bottle of Riesling in the fridge.”