“Mommy, what’s that smell?” he asked.
“It’s meatloaf, Bug.” I wiped a strand of hair out of my face and forced a smile. “You like meatloaf.”
Noah made a face. “No I don’t.”
“Sure you do.”
He thought for a second, then shrugged. “I like noodles better.”
Me too, kid. “Well, tonight we’re having meatloaf. And potatoes. And carrots.” I watched his nose wrinkle at the word carrots. “And if you eat it all, we can have ice cream.”
He brightened instantly. “Ice cream with the blue stuff?”
“Yep, with the blue stuff.” The magic of sprinkles. My greatest parenting hack.
Noah zoomed back to the living room, careening his trucks into the base of the wall, where a thin crack ran from the floorboard to the socket. I knelt to wipe up a line of potato flakes I’d managed to fling across the linoleum, then went back to my mental script.
It’s not a date, I reminded myself. Just a friend helping another friend. And if he asks about the scars, or Noah’s dad, or anything you don’t want to talk about, you’ll just smile and serve more meatloaf.
A sudden clatter from the living room made me freeze. Noah had flipped the toy box and was now shoveling the entire contents across the rug, shouting, “AVALANCHE!” at the top of his lungs. I sighed. The first rule of single-parenting: give up on the idea of impressing anyone, ever. The second rule: always check the clock, because every minute is a minute closer to bedtime.
I was checking on the carrots—baby carrots, because I’d read somewhere that cutting them yourself was a waste of energy—when the timer for the meatloaf dinged. I actually yelped, then felt instantly stupid, because it was just a timer and not the start of a natural disaster. Still, my hands were trembling as I wipedthem on a dishtowel, then ran them through my hair for good measure. My reflection in the microwave was not comforting: cheeks too pink, hair refusing to lie flat, and the brand new blonde streaks I’d gotten on a whim standing out too brightly against my pale skin. I gave up and went to the window, peeking through the blinds.
Nothing.
Whittier Falls at dusk was all blue shadows and orange light, the air outside already sharp with the promise of winter. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor was yelling at her teenager. Above me, the guy in 3C was learning to play the trumpet again, badly. The hallway perpetually smelled of pizza and bleach.
I wondered what Ford would think of this place. If he’d judge the paint peeling in the bathroom, or the cracks in the living room wall that never quite got fixed.
Probably not. At least not on purpose. He didn’t seem like the type.
But then again, I didn’t really know what “type” he was anymore, or any man, for that matter.
The buzzer sounded, sudden and shrill. I jumped, nearly dropping my phone onto the threadbare carpet.
“Mommy, someone’s here!” Noah squealed, abandoning his trucks and barreling into the entryway, socks skidding on the floor.
“Yeah, I know,” I whispered, mostly to myself. “Come on, let’s go let Mr. Ford inside.”
Noah saluted, already distracted by a Cheerio stuck to his pajama shirt.
Before we could go downstairs and let Ford in, a sharp knock sounded on my apartment door.
I opened it to find Ford with a smolderingly angry look on his face. He was standing in the hallway, a paper bag in onehand, toolbox in the other. He wore a navy henley and dark jeans, sleeves shoved up to the elbows, exposing the lines of ink running up his arms. His hair was damp and freshly combed, like he’d showered just for this. His glasses sat low on his nose. He looked both entirely at ease and completely out of place.
“Your main door wasn’t secure at all,” he growled out. “Anyone could have just strolled right in.”
“Oh, sometimes it doesn’t latch properly.”
“Well that’s unacceptable. What kind of landlord lets his property go unsecured? It’s not safe. I’m serious, I want to talk to him.”
He didn’t wait for me to let him in, just turned to the side and gently pushed past me, like he’d been here a hundred times. I felt my mouth hang open in surprise, and snapped it shut before I caught flies.
I closed the door and turned around to find him shaking his head and softening his expression.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to get worked up. How are you, Lily?”
“I’m, um, great. Thanks. How are you?”
