I stareat my phone in dismay. The realtor has canceled the eighth—eighth!—apartment showing this week. "Unit was just rented. I'm so sorry. I will call with other options," reads the text. I slump back in my office chair, tossing my phone onto the desk with more force than necessary.
Finding a new place is proving to be impossible. Everything in my price range is either forty minutes from work or has serious issues. The one decent apartment I toured had a lease ready for me to sign until the landlord "remembered" their no-pet policy when I mentioned occasionally dog-sitting for friends.
I have no idea why I would mention Gordie to a potential landlord. He’s not even my dog. And Alder isn’t going to callmewhen he goes out of town and needs help with the smelly mutt.
The lunch hour is nearly over, and I've accomplished nothing except increased frustration. I should be reviewing hockey teeth, not scrolling through rental listings I can't afford. I force myself to open Tucker Stag's chart, focusing on his upcoming fitting, but my thoughts keep drifting back to his twin.
Things have been strained at the townhouse since thebarbershop quartet incident four days ago. We've been polite—excruciatingly so—as if we're careful houseguests instead of the friends we'd become. I find myself missing our easy banter and scheming. I still haven’t talked to him about our strategy for Gunnar’s wedding.
I should be there as a member of the Fury staff. However, I seriously doubt my ability to keep my hands off Alder when he’s in fancy clothes, especially if he smells like aftershave again.
My phone buzzes. My first instinct is to ignore it, assuming it's another cancellation. But when I glance down, I see Alder's name.
Weather's supposed to be perfect tomorrow. Let's get out of our heads for a day.
I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the screen. I should decline, maintain boundaries, and focus on apartment hunting.
But the thought of another day spent calling realtors and looking at dingy studios tightens my chest. Beneath my professional concerns lies a simpler truth I'm reluctant to admit: I miss him.
What did you have in mind?
I type before I can talk myself out of it.
Kayaking on the river. Pittsburgh rite of passage. No pressure.
My stomach immediately clenches. Kayaking? With my body? The image of trying to wedge myself into a tiny plastic boat while athletic people look on in judgment makes me want to curl into a ball.
Not sure if that's my thing.
I respond, which is the understatement of the year.
His reply comes quickly:
Have you ever tried it?
No, but...
I stop typing, recognizing the familiar pattern. How many experiences have I avoided because of fear? How many times have I let Brad's voice in my head—or my mother's—dictate what I should and shouldn't attempt with this body?
Before I can overthink it, I delete my hesitant message and type:
Never tried it, but I'm willing to give it a shot. What time?
9 am? I'll drive. Bring sunscreen.
I set my phone down, a mixture of excitement and anxiety swirling in my stomach. It's just kayaking, I tell myself. It's not a date. It's two friends spending time together. Yet, that feels like a big, fat lie.
Friday morning dawns clear and bright, just as Alder predicted. I emerge out of my room in swim shorts and a t-shirt, having agonized over my outfit choice for far too long. Alder is already in the kitchen, packing a small cooler.
"Morning," he says with cautious cheerfulness. I’m probably imagining him staring at my legs. But then, maybe he’s blinded by the miles of white skin that haven’t seen the sun yet this summer. He clears his throat. "Coffee?"
"Please." I accept the mug he offers, noticing he's wearingswim trunks and a faded college t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. "Where are we going exactly?"
"Aspinwall. There's a kayak rental place up there that's a bit off the beaten path." He closes the cooler. "Less crowded than the downtown spots. Figured you'd prefer that."
The thoughtfulness of this choice catches me off guard. "Yeah, that's... thanks. That's perfect."
He shrugs, but I can see he's pleased by my reaction. "Ready whenever you are."
