Normally, I’d say it doesn’t bother me, but I’m blowing this for Richie.I fulfilled her wish, technically, but I have to make more out of this experience.For some reason unbeknownst to me, he keeps landing in my path, and fate keeps pushing us together.It has to be because I need to do more for Richie.
"So, what do you do when you’re not playing soccer?"
TJ turns to look at me.Based on the expression on his face, I quickly glance at myself in the mirrored doors to see if I’ve suddenly sprouted an extra head that I’m not aware of.Nope, just me in all my drowned-rat glory.
Thank God I put on a bra today, otherwise I’d be ready to compete in a frumpy wet T-shirt contest.I’m a mess.
"What’s it to you?"
If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was a distinct snap in his tone.I don’t know if I should redirect the conversation to something else or if standing here in the most painfully awkward silence ever is the preferred option.
I open my mouth, but the doors part, sparing—or prolonging—my misery.I follow him down the hall and to the door that leads to his place.He unlocks it and pushes it open, gesturing for me to go in front of him.
I walk in and immediately halt, too busy taking everything in to move further.This apartment is stunning.High ceilings showing wood slats and beams.Visible ductwork in shiny chrome.White walls and exposed brick.It’s a total fusion of the past and present and is uber chic.
If I hadn’t had to move so quickly, and if I could afford it, I’d love to live in a place like this.It’s got so much more personality than my sad, tan apartment.
"Wow," I say."This is amazing."I’m looking up, around, turning in a circle.
TJ disappears down the hall, returning a moment later with a thick, fluffy towel in his hand.He hands it to me and disappears again.I’m still holding my iced mocha.I set it on the counter and try to dry off.I wipe my face off, and then my arms and legs.How we got so wet in so little time is beyond me.I throw the towel over my shoulders like a cape and wait.
A moment later, TJ returns.He’s in gray sweatpants and is pulling a shirt over his head.I catch a glimpse of a flat, muscular stomach.
Is it hot in here?
Holy shit, I didn’t think people looked like that in real life.Sure, I’ve seen people like that on TV, or even on ClikClak, but I assumed that they were using filters or airbrushing.While I generally have no interest in sports or athletics, I do enjoy the occasional eye-candy video.Just because I’m a homebody doesn’t mean I don’t have a libido.They give me inspiration for how to picture my favorite book heroes.And the authors are always going on about gray sweatpants.I had no idea why, until now.
It all makes sense.
Then I realize I’m staring, so I abruptly turn away, looking back at the ceiling."So this used to be a factory?What kind?Like a textile mill or something?"
"Um, I’d guess chocolate."
I turn back around."Chocolate?Why do you think that?"
"Because it’s called The Chocolate Factory.I never looked into it, though.The space is nice, and it’s close to work.I didn’t want to have to worry about taking care of a house just yet."
Mmm, chocolate.
Of course, at my job, when someone says "chocolate factory," they mean something totally different.
"Well, this place is amazing.Thanks for this," I say, pulling the towel tighter around my shoulders.I look toward the living room area and try to see what’s going on outside.The windows are splattered with rain, so it makes it tough to see if it’s still coming down.The air conditioning is cranked, and I shiver in response.
"Are you cold?"He walks over to the thermostat and presses some buttons.Instantly, silence befalls the apartment, with the exception of the rain hitting the window.Guess that answers that question."Let me get you a change of clothes.Hang on."
Before I can protest, he’s gone again.I wish I could tell Richie all about this.She’d die all over again."Richie," I whisper, looking at the ceiling, "you will not believe where I am."
"Did you say something?I put some stuff in the bathroom for you."
"Um, thanks."Ignoring his question, I practically run to the bathroom.He’s put out a pair of flannel pajama pants and a gray Boston Buzzards sweatshirt.The pants look brand new.They’re way too big for me, so I pull the drawstring and roll the cuffs.The crewneck sweatshirt comes down to mid-thigh.The sleeves have to be rolled up, too.
As if I could look any more ridiculous.
My hair is beyond help, short of ripping the elastic out and using my fingers to comb through it.Then I take a second to confirm that, yes, my mascara has run down my face.Of course it has.Tissues aren’t the best at cleaning up makeup, but it’s the best I can do.I only glance in the mirror momentarily.It’s not going to get any better than this.
I walk out with my clothes folded under my arm.
"Here, let me toss them in the dryer for a few minutes."He holds his hands out, waiting for my clothes.I pass them over but then remember my folded-up list.It’s been somewhat protected in the pocket of my shorts.It doesn’t appear to be too wet—just a little damp.Good thing there’s a stack of copies in my apartment.
