Page 13 of Smash

“No problemo.”

There was a beat of silence. When I looked up, I found Rafe watching me.

He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “Have any good plans for the rest of the day?”

“Just a date with some laundry and cooking dinner.”

He nodded and another stretch of silence passed before he touched two fingers to his forehead in a casual salute. “Alrighty then. You have a good one.”

After he left, I blew out a long exhale. Not ready to examine what I was feeling, I focused on putting away groceries. Once that was done, I gathered a load of laundry and headed down to the basement. When I reached the second floor, I didn’t allow myself to slow down as I passed Rafe’s open door. Instead, I quickened my pace.

In the laundry room, I sorted lights and darks and started loading the first batch of clothes into the machine. As I leaned over to press the start button, something on the floor between the washer and dryer caught my eye. I bent down and picked it up.

A pair of black boxer briefs. Shorter than the kind Calder wore that went halfway down his thighs. Not to mention, these were a smaller waist size. More fitted. Considering there was only one other man living in the building, I was pretty sure I knew who they belonged to.

I stared at them for a moment. Then another. My fingers tightened slowly around the waistband before I realized I’d been holding them for a little too long.

Or a lot too long, considering I lived upstairs with my boyfriend.

CHAPTER 4

“What is this thing we’re going to again?” Calder asked the next night while buttoning his shirt.

“I’m not really sure,” I told him. “Rafe just said it was performance artist night at a local bookstore.”

He tucked his shirt into his pants. “I’m going to be dragged to a lot of this weird stuff with the two of you, aren’t I?”

“I’m not dragging you. We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to. Is there something else you’d rather do tonight?”

He shrugged. “Rotting in front of the TV and watching the baseball game?”

Today had been a hard day. I woke up feeling homesick and called my mom. She tried to sound upbeat, but I could tell she wasn’t. She’d had some low moments since my dad passed away, and today seemed like one of them. After I hung up, my guilt about leaving her and moving two-thousand miles away lingered. My mom had a good group of friends, my two sisters still lived at home, and her brother lived only a half hour away. It wasn’t like she was alone. But I knew her. She’d put on a brave face for all of them, not wanting anyone to worry. We were alike in that way.

Calder grabbed his keys, kissed my forehead, and nodded toward the door. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Park Slope Books & Stage was on a corner a few blocks away, in the opposite direction of the supermarket. A chalkboard sign outside read: Performance night—BYOB.

Inside, the place smelled like old paper and coffee—my favorite scent. I even had a candle back home in Montana that smelled like a bookstore. Rows of shelves lined the walls, and folding chairs had been set up in a small open area near the back where a tiny stage held nothing more than a microphone stand and a stool.

A few people milled around, chatting quietly, some pouring wine out of bottles wrapped in brown paper bags.

Calder took in the room. “Definitely not going to have the Yankee game on.”

I elbowed him playfully. “Expand your horizons, Monroe.”

We found a table with four empty chairs near the middle of the room. Calder leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. He looked tired. A small pang of guilt hit me for asking him to come.

“We don’t have to stay long,” I said.

He smirked. “My mom made me go see The Nutcracker every Christmas, fourteen years in a row. No worries. I’m an expert at napping with my eyes open.”

The bell on the door behind us jingled, and a moment later, Rafe walked over.

“BYOB,” he said, lifting a bottle of wine. “I wasn’t sure if they had glasses, so I stopped at 7-Eleven and swiped a few of these paper coffee cups.”

“Look at you,” Calder said. “Cultured and classy.”