“How’d you know?”
“The only other people you talk to on the phone are Max and your father—neither of whom you refer to asbitch.”
“He was being a smart-ass.”
“Calling the kettle black, honey.” Calvin removed the tray and set it on the stovetop. The smell of baked chicken and melted cheese filled the room, and Dillon whined from the doorway.
“Do you still have tomorrow off?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Can a bunch of old junk and I have a ride to the Javits Center?”
“Sure.”
“You don’t even want to ask why?”
Calvin glanced up from cutting dinner with a spatula. “Why?” he asked, more out of obligation than interest.
“Pete White and his sleazy little dick.”
Calvin eased portions of lasagna onto two plates before handing one to me. He turned and looked through a few plastic bags on the floor before retrieving some utensils. “Go ahead and explain. I’m listening.” He followed me out of the kitchen.
“He never picked up my collection!” I sat on the floor in the living room and put my food on an upturned box pretending to be a coffee table. Calvin sat beside me, set a fork and knife on my plate, and turned on the television that was propped on top of two more boxes.
“And why do we still have no furniture?” I asked offhandedly, looking around.
“The delivery company had a mix-up with the dates, so they’ll be here tomorrow afternoon.”
“Is it, like, a full moon for shipping companies? Cindy, Gum-Popper Extraordinaire, wouldn’t give me the contact information of the person who sent me the Kinetoscope.”
Calvin took a big bite of food as he flipped channels with the remote.
“Hairy Hobbit couldn’t get across town to move my collection, but he sure as fuck made it to the Emporium in time to try to get into my pants,” I continued.
“He what?” Calvin asked around a mouthful.
“And now we have to sleep on the floor for a second night in a row? This is why we can’t have nice things, Cal.”
Calvin stared at me, one hand still holding the television remote, the fork poised over his plate with the other. “But you didn’t go sleuthing, right?”
A RINGINGphone is a lot louder at 4:00 a.m. when it’s in a bare apartment with vaulted ceilings.
Calvin woke with a start beside me, jackknifing up from the pile of blankets and pillows on the living room floor.
I quickly sat up beside him and groped for his arm in the dark. “Phone,” I mumbled, half-awake.
Acknowledgment of what the sound was eased the tension in Calvin’s body. Late-night calls were for him, and he’d become accustomed to them long ago. But I guess the ringtone sounding different in the new apartment, and the fact that he’d woken suddenly in unfamiliar surroundings, had been enough to throw him off.
Calvin felt around on the floor for where he’d left his phone.
I dropped back down on the pillows.
“Baby,” he said, voice deep and scratchy with sleep.
“Huh?”
“It’s your phone.” He rolled back, leaned over me, and grabbed my cell from the box coffee table. “It’s not someone from your contact list.”
