Page 28 of The Revenge Game
After I get inside my apartment, I realize I’m grinning.
I quickly scan my apartment. As a hangover from my upbringing, I always keep my apartment immaculate. The punishment for not being tidy was harsh when you lived with Bobby Ray. A misplaced shoe had once cost me a weekend in my room with nothing but a Bible.
But I can’t help looking at my apartment critically now, trying to see it through Drew’s eyes. My tropical fish tank fills up one corner, the school of neon tetras darting in formation like tiny synchronized swimmers showing off their best routine.
The bookshelf next to the fish tank is stuffed with cookbooks and true crime novels, while the walls are covered with black-and-white photos I’ve taken at the shelter. My favorite is of Moose mid-shake, jowls flying, perfectly capturing that mix of dignity and ridiculousness only mastiffs can achieve.
A loud meow announces Tabitha’s arrival as she saunters out from her favorite sunbathing spot behind the curtains. Her sister Cassie isn’t far behind, her black tail held high like an exclamation mark.
“Here comes trouble,” I say as Tabitha immediately launches into operatic meows while Cassie weaves a complex figure around my ankles.
“I know, I know, you’re starving,” I tell them. “Life is so hard when your human abandons you for most of the day.”
After I’ve made a fuss over the cats, I head to the kitchen, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach that feels suspiciously like first-date nerves. Which is ridiculous because this isn’t a date. It’s just being neighborly.
I may be reaching the limit of how many times I can repeat the word neighborly to myself.
Still, I pull out the ingredients for guacamole, my hands moving on autopilot as I dice the onions and tomatoes. Everyone should experience authentic guacamole at least once in their life. Me putting in so much effort has nothing to do with the sound of Drew’s laugh last night…
After I make some guacamole, I’ve still got time to kill, and I start the familiar motions of making my mom’s chili. Maybe I’ll be able to convince Drew to stay for dinner?
At precisely five o’clock, there’s a knock on the door.
My feet feel oddly disconnected from my body as I head to the door. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and run a hand through my hair before realizing I’ve probably just messed it upcompletely, along with adding sweat to it. Which I don’t think has ever been highly rated as a hair gel.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
And there’s Drew.
He’s still wearing the glasses like earlier, which highlight his deep-brown eyes, making him look sophisticated and somehow softer at the same time.
I swallow hard. “Hey, man, come in.”
I step back to allow Drew into my apartment.
He comes in cautiously like he’s mapping out the space, those eyes behind his glasses scanning every detail.
“You want a beer?” I’m already moving to the fridge, grateful for the excuse to do something with my hands.
“Ah, yes, please,” Drew says.
Grabbing two beers and opening them gives me a chance to collect myself, and I’ve got my confident smile plastered on my face as I turn back around.
“Thanks.” Drew takes the bottle off me. His fingers only brush against mine for a millisecond, but it feels longer than that.
He immediately takes a long pull from the bottle.
“Have a seat.” I point to the oversized leather couch I’d splurged on when I got my first bonus. It’s too big for the space, but it’s the kind of couch that encourages you to sink in and stay.
Drew sits tentatively on the edge as if worried the couch will swallow him whole.
“Do you want some guacamole? Or if you don’t like that, I’ve got some spiced nuts or chips and dip or pretty much anything else you could want.” I’m aware I’m rambling, but my suave has completely abandoned me. “Except Marmite, of course. That’s where I draw the line. Some things are just wrong.”
Thank fuck I’ve managed to salvage it with some yeast-spread humor because the corner of Drew’s mouth quirksupward momentarily before his lips settle back into a neutral expression.
“I like guacamole.” He says the last word slowly, like it’s unfamiliar.
I head to the kitchen, oddly conscious of Drew’s eyes following me as I grab the guacamole from the fridge and arrange tortilla chips in a spiral pattern.
