Page 13 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

Over the noisy gurgling, I hear him exhale. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“I guess now I have to wait.”

He glances at my basket of laundry and his smile dampens. He’s just put it together that I’m done with my laundry and won’t be here to keep him company.

“Do you want some help folding?” he asks.

“Oh, no, I think I’m okay.”

He leans over and splays both palms on the table. “You sure? I’ve got time to kill and I happen to be an excellent folder.”

I shouldn’t let this continue. I should head straight upstairs and never look back. But that damn smile. Maybe a stronger woman would say no. Say that she can fold her own damn laundry. But what could it possibly hurt to hang around him for a few more minutes?

“Well, okay. But if you’re not as good a folder as you say you are?—”

“Then I’m gone,” he says, holding up his hands.

He moves to stand beside me and grabs one of my bedsheets. I watch in amazement as he effortlessly folds a perfect square with my flat sheet. When he places it on the table, he cocks an eyebrow at me.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding,” I muse, impressed. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

He grabs the fitted sheet and starts doing some elaborate origami with it while I grab a pair of jeans. “Military school.”

“You’re in the military?”

He scoffs. “Oh, fuck no. But I was a little shit in high school and my parents didn’t know what to do with me anymore. So they shipped me off to this radical Christian military school to learn my place.”

I pause, my jaw dropping. “That sounds awful.”

“It was. But it wasn’t my parents’ fault,” he adds. “They didn’t realize what the place was really like. I don’t think most parents did. They’ve apologized to me for years.”

I frown, wondering what an apology from a parent must feel like. “And you forgave them?”

He turns to me. “Of course. I was out of control—they loved me and didn’t want me to end up in jail someday. I don’t blame them for sending me there.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, before picking up a shirt from the pile.

“Don’t be,” he says with that winning grin. “It was hell, but I did learn a few tricks. And it helped me appreciate just how good I had it at home. But if you ask my parents,” he says, lowering his voice, “I’m still a little shit.”

I laugh and he places another crisp square down with my fitted sheet.

“I have to admit, I don’t think I’ve ever managed to make those sheets look like anything but a lumpy potato.”

“I can teach you if you want,” he offers.

When I look over, we lock eyes for a moment. Why does this feel like a date? It’s not. And it can’t be. A guy like him doesn’t want a girl like me for anything other than what’s between my legs, even if he really was dreaming about me. “Maybe Ilikelumpy potatoes.”

He nods. “Well, the offer stands.”

A few minutes pass in silence. His precisely folded pile growing next to my rumpled, lopsided one until there’s nothing left. I take the two piles and place them in the basket, holding it under one arm on my hip. “Thanks for the help,” I say.

“Any time.”

We stand a little awkwardly by the machines as they spin and whirl. His fingers tap compulsively against the metal and I’m starting to wonder if I should just turn and go.

“So what do you do now? For work, I mean,” he adds. “Unless, wait—are you still dancing?”

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