Page 94 of Play Along With Me
"I'm serious," I insist, though her teasing tone doesn't bother me. "No pressure, no expectations. I just... like talking to you. And my apartment has the advantage of no pianists, no eavesdropping waiters, and definitely no parents."
"A compelling sales pitch," she acknowledges, then glances at the waiting Uber. "But what about my chariot? I feel bad making them wait only to cancel."
"I can drive you home later," I offer. "Or call you another Uber. Whatever you prefer."
She studies me for a moment, as if weighing options, possibilities, potential consequences. Then she nods, decision made.
"Okay," she says, stepping toward the car to speak to the driver. "Let me just cancel this and we can go to your place. For talking," she adds with exaggerated innocence that makes me laugh.
"Absolutely. Just talking," I agree solemnly. "And maybe a comprehensive tour of my three pieces of furniture."
"Now there's an offer a girl can't refuse," she quips, returning to my side after dismissing the Uber. "Lead the way, Marshall. Show me this palace of minimal furnishings I've heard so much about."
As we walk toward my car parked a block away, Audrey's hand finds mine, our fingers interlacing with a naturalness that belies how new this is. Her hand is small in mine, but her grip is surprisingly strong. Like everything else about her, there's more there than first appears.
"Fair warning," I tell her as we reach my car, "my mom's decorating efforts are still evident. There may be throw pillows with inspirational hockey quotes. I didn't have the heart to hide them after she left."
"Now I'm definitely coming over," Audrey declares. "The potential for blackmail material is simply too good to pass up."
I open the passenger door for her, another automatic gesture that makes her smile. "Such a gentleman," she teases.
I walk around to the driver's side and get in. "Some goalies even use utensils to eat."
"Revolutionary," she gasps in mock astonishment. "Next you'll tell me you don't communicate exclusively in grunts and hockey terminology."
"Only during playoff season," I assure her as I start the car. "Regular season, full sentences are permitted."
The drive to my apartment is filled with similar banter, a comfortable back-and-forth that feels effortless. Audrey comments on passing landmarks, asks questions about my routine in Boston versus Providence, shares anecdotes about particularly memorable Uber rides she's experienced. The conversation never lags, never feels forced.
When we reach my building, a momentary awkwardness descends as the reality of the situation—Audrey coming to my apartment, alone, after what was essentially our first real date—settles over us.
"Still up for that furniture tour?" I ask as we ride the elevator to my floor, trying to dispel the sudden tension.
"Absolutely," she nods firmly. "I've been preparing for this moment my entire life. My furniture criticism skills are unmatched."
The elevator doors open, and I lead her down the hallway to my apartment, suddenly seeing it through her eyes—the generic hallway, the institutional lighting, the impersonal nature of a short-term rental.
"Home sweet temporary home," I say as I unlock the door, gesturing for her to enter first.
Audrey steps inside, taking in the sparsely furnished living room with its single couch, coffee table, and wall-mounted TV. The kitchen beyond is basic but clean, with the new dishes my mother purchased still in their box on the counter.
"Very minimalist," she observes. "I like it. Like a monk's cell, but with better electronics."
"I travel a lot," I explain, suddenly self-conscious. "And this is just until the end of the season, maybe longer depending on contracts and trades and a million other factors."
"It makes sense," she assures me. "Why accumulate stuff if you might have to pack up and move across the country on short notice? Very practical."
I relax slightly at her understanding. "Exactly. Though my mom thinks it's 'depressing' and 'not a proper home.'"
"Hence the throw pillows," Audrey notes, spotting the two pillows my mother insisted on placing on the couch—one navy blue with "SHOOT YOUR SHOT" embroidered in gold, the other bearing the Saints logo.
"The least offensive of her selections," I confirm. "She also tried to introduce a 'Bless This Home' wall hanging and several framed stock photos of random families."
Audrey laughs. "She's just trying to make it homey. It's sweet, in an aggressively domestic way."
"That's my mom," I agree. "Aggressively domestic. Can I get you something to drink? I have... water, protein shakes, and I think there's a bottle of wine my dad left."
"Wine sounds good," Audrey says, still wandering around the living room, examining the few personal items I've unpacked—my laptop, a framed photo of my parents at my college graduation, a dog-eared copy of The Hobbit that travels with me everywhere.
