Page 27 of Hold the Pickle

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Page 27 of Hold the Pickle

“But, I really do plan to go for a run,” he says.

I lie down and pull the blue comforter over me. “Okay, Dalton.”

“I’ll be back after lunch. And I’ll get my own pillow. And see if I can spot some curtainy thing.”

“That’ll be good.”

“You want me to put your cell on the charger?” He picks up the phone I left on the sofa.

“That would be nice.”

He crosses the room and plugs it in on the dresser. “Sweet dreams.”

I’m not sure he says anything else, because I am out cold.

10

DALTON

The next few shifts work out like Nadia and I planned. I get in early in the morning, either after Nadia is gone or with only an hour of crossover.

When she isn’t there, I sleep or organize a few things. We get a small nightstand with two drawers. A curtain to divide the room. More dishes. The fridge slowly fills with groceries, condiments, and leftovers.

She makes big casseroles and leaves notes for what I can eat.

I buy extra pizza or pasta or a second burger and leave some for her.

It’s working.

But about two weeks into our roommate situation, I get two whole days off, starting in the evening.

Our sleep schedules are going to align twice.

When I enter the apartment, Nadia is cooking. The amazing smell of garlic fills the air.

“Please tell me you’re making extra,” I say, dropping onto the sofa.

“Totally. I wouldn’t leave you out.”

I kick back, leaning my head on the arm, watching her move around the kitchen. She’s wearing a deli shirt and khakis. Her dark hair is braided down her back. It’s soothing to watch her stir a pot, shift to a cutting board, and slice an onion.

I wonder who else has gotten to see her like this. “Have you had many roommates before?”

She scoots the onion into the pan. A new, wonderful aroma fills the apartment. “I have. I lived with my friend Sheila throughout grad school.”

Wait, what? I sit up abruptly. “Grad school? You have a Master’s? Or a Ph.D.?”

“An MBA.” She doesn’t break stride, cutting a stick of butter into chunks.

I head for the bar and perch on a stool. “Why are you making deli sandwiches, then?” This could be the answer to everything I’ve been wondering about her.

“Stalling.”

The butter goes into the microwave and she punches buttons before facing me. “My family expects me to work for Pickle Media, and I’m not sure I want to.”

“So you’re a rebel.”

“A rebel in plastic food service gloves.” The microwave dings, and she pulls out the melted butter, peering into the bowl. “I enjoy cooking. I don’t mind slicing and dicing all day. Not a fan of customer service. People can be so rude.”


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