Page 17 of Hold the Pickle
I sigh and take off for the courtyard.
Nobody’s at the pool. I park on a chair and think about our predicament.
I hadn’t planned past the first few nights when we took the place. Of course some of my shifts are going to end when she’s home.
Shit.
I tug my phone out of my pocket to text her.
Me: Hey, I’m getting off shift and realize we’ll both be here.
Nadia: I already figured out we’d be off at the same time.
Me: I saw you were home.
Nadia: Where are you?
Me: By the pool.
Nadia: Night swimming?
Me: Thinking.
Nadia: I made a lasagna. You’re welcome to some when you are done with your deep poolside thoughts.
She made dinner? To share?
My stomach growls at the mere thought of it.
Me: Coming.
I wait a moment to see if she’ll text anything back, but when she doesn’t, I head to the gate.
When I open the door to the apartment, she’s sitting at the bar. I glance around, looking for the cat, but the oversized furball must be hiding again. I haven’t seen her since Nadia introduced her.
She’s dressed a lot like the day she found me on the floor. Jeans. T-shirt. Her pink socks have the words “I’m just a girl who loves” on one foot, but the other one is tucked beneath her on the stool. Now I’m dying to know what it says. Wine? Cheese? Sex?
There I go again.
I drop my keys and badge on the dresser. A few of her things are already there. Her phone on a charger. A small wooden box. A bottle of hand lotion with flowers on it. I wonder if it’s the source of how she smells.
Focus, Dalton.
I head over to the bar. Nadia is in front of an empty plate, a few traces of red sauce on its surface. Her fork is lying neatly across it, like she finished a formal meal and is indicating to the waitstaff that they can take her plate.
She holds a book open, but I can’t quite make out the text. She closes it, cover down. The back is pink. She rests her arm over it like she’s trying to hide it.
Interesting.
“I picked up a few dishes,” she says. “Some plates, a bit of silverware, and a baking pan or two. My sister-in-law Camryn gave me a few pots she never uses. It’s not much, but we can get by for a while.”
“Sounds good.” I move past the bar and into the kitchen. I open a few cabinets, locating the short stack of plates and pullingone down. There are also four plastic glasses on the shelf. I take one of those as well and fill it with tap water.
“I’ll pick up some groceries during this break I have,” I tell her. “Should we designate sections of the fridge, or will we know whose is whose?”
“I’ll take the right side,” she says. “I often bring things home from the deli. We can make that communal food, because I have more than I can eat, anyway.”
That’s a perk. “Awesome. And thank you for sharing your lasagna. I am starved.”
