Page 26 of Levi
I finish the tea, leave money on the counter, and pick the bag up because leaving it would mean explaining why, and there’s no explanation that survives Benji’s curious eyes.
“Where are you going?” Benji asks. “Thought you were here to talk about the wedding.”
“I need to go,” I say. “There are calls I need to make.”
“The ribs are better hot,” Benji adds, not looking up from his spreadsheet.
“They’re going in my refrigerator. I’m eating them at home tonight. Alone.”
“Sure you are. Tell him I said hello.”
Chapter 9: Levi
The giant washing machine in the laundry room looks like it could dock with a space station. I stand in front of it with everything I brought with me in a pile on the lid, and decide that today I’m doing my own laundry. Every shirt smells like yesterday’s walk in the sun, and I can’t negotiate fairly with a handsome fella if I’m wearing a shirt that’s already lost.
Under the kitchen sink there’s a box of pretty pods, bright as candy. I know what they are. I’ve watched television commercials. Pods are pods. I load the drum, drop in three because my clothes have been through a lot, and press the button that looks the most like a beginning. The machine fills and turns.
I leave it going and walk out to the curb at seven twenty-five, duffel on my shoulder out of years of habit.
The SUV is already waiting for me, because a guy who doesn’t swear runs early. Dante’s back in the fancy linen clothes, pressed and shaved, cologne at full Monday volume. I take the one glance I’ve budgeted myself for this morning.
“Seven twenty-five and you’re already idling.” I slide into the passenger seat. “You ever arrive on time, like a normal person?”
“My father always told me if I wasn’t fifteen minutes early, I was late.” He hands me his spare key at the traffic light. “Crew’s done at five. I’ll come pick you up. Same rules as last time.”
“Got it,” I say. “Eat whatever’s in the kitchen. Don’t trash the place. Don’t smoke inside.”
“You remember the script.”
“Sure do. I’m a quick study. You’d be surprised.”
The light goes green and he rolls through it. I keep going, because a silent car gets to me and he’s the only thing to do on this highway.
“Course, a quick study always reads between the lines. ‘Eat whatever’s in the kitchen’ — you say that like a man who’s never watched somebody take him at his word. How do you know I won’t eat everything you’ve got?”
“Eat what you want. It’s replaceable. It’s food, not a test.”
“And ‘don’t trash the place.’ Define the word trash. My bar and a man who irons his underwear might be set at different heights.”
“Simple rules. Don’t break anything, don’t burn anything, leave it how you found it.”
“Leave it how I found it.” I let that sit a second. “Can’t promise that. I tend to improve a room just by being in it.”
“Then leave it cleaner. I’ll take cleaner.”
“Listen to you, making counteroffers.” I settle back. “We’ll turn you into a negotiator yet.”
He doesn’t bite, and I let a mile go by before I can’t help myself. “Ran a load of laundry before I left, by the way. First time I’ve done my own wash in I don’t know how many years.”
“You did laundry?”
“Don’t look so surprised. Found the machine, sorted it myself, pushed the button that looked like go. I’m downright domestic this morning.”
He pulls into the spot in front of his building and I step out. This time he doesn’t wait for me to go inside. He’s gone before I get the key in the lock. Once inside, I put the doors where I like them and prop the front one with the kitchen chair again. His place almost feels like home to me now.
Then I stand in the middle of a real estate agent’s living room with seven hours and no audience. On the ride over, I promised myself I’d keep my prowling to surfaces only. Anything more than that would be rude. That rule lasts five minutes.
The apartment is cheap and Dante is not. The discrepancy between those two facts is everywhere. The furniture looks like it came with the lease, but he squared all of it to the walls exactly right, and the quilt on his bed is tucked military-tight.
