“I thought you said you were fine with everything on it.”
My nose wrinkles. “Except for olives, because they taste like fermented dirt.”
He chortles. “Fermented dirt?”
“Yes, exactly,” I say with a nod.
“Well, I love olives.”
“Everyone is entitled to be wrong sometimes.”
Another laugh tumbles out of him, and I flick my eyes up at the sound of it, catching the tail end of his smile. He’s usually pretty serious, but his face transforms when he smiles. It makes him look younger, carefree. I wonder if that’s how I look when I laugh. I can’t remember the last time I was carefree.
Shaking the thought away, I extend my plate in his direction. “You’re welcome to my olives.”
His smile turns into something softer as he picks them off my plate and places them on his slice. His eyes lift to mine, the blue looking darker in the dim light. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. Something about the moment sticks and holds. His gaze is still fixed on mine. My heart picks up its pace in my chest, a steadythump, thump, thump.
I clear my throat and pull my eyes from his, reaching for the remote. “Want to watch something?”
He kicks up his feet on the coffee table. “Sure.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him lift the pizza to his mouth, a long string of melted cheese pulling from his lips to the plate. I blink and focus on the TV, turning it on. An old sitcom is playing, and I don’t bother flipping the channel.
We eat in silence, him passing me the small box of garlic knots when I finish my slice, holding the extra large cup of marinara in between us. It’s easy, comforting in a way I hadn’t expected after living alone for so long. Living with my parents was fine. Both ofthem can be chatty, but we all also valued our alone time. The house was often quiet in a way we all enjoyed. I hadn’t realized when I moved out that the silence had changed. That I would miss sitting in the quiet with someone else.
“So how’d you hurt your head today?” he asks when the episode ends.
I glance over at him, head rolling against the back of the couch. “How’d you know I hurt my head?”
“The anvil comment was a pretty clear giveaway.”
I laugh, pleasantly surprised that it doesn’t send a shooting pain through my skull. When I look back at him, he’s still watching me, hands folded on his stomach and legs stretched out in front of him, eyes focused on me from beneath his hood.
“I tried to work on my Airstream.”
His brows lift, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I know, I know,” I say, lifting my hands. “I pushed myself too hard too fast.”
Still, he says nothing, and I’m grateful to be spared the lecture. No one else in my life would let that go.
I blow out a breath. “I just wanted to try to get as much done as I could before I go back to work. This is our busy season.”
“You’re some kind of tour guide, right?” he asks.
I nod. “Backcountry, so I take people out on hikes in the park and other surrounding areas. Sometimes just day trips, sometimes a few days at a time.”
“Wow,” he says. “Sounds fun.”
“It is,” I tell him and mean it. I may feel overwhelmed in many aspects of my life right now, but I love my job. I love being outdoors, surrounded by the trees and the creeks, the birds and flowers, the mountains jutting up all around me. It’s probably the only time I don’t feel like the walls are closing in on me, like my skin is too small for my bones, stretching too tight.
“And I’m excited to go back,” I say. “But it’s also going to limit my time I can work on the Airstream by…a lot.”
He makes a noise in the back of his throat and turns back to the TV. It casts his body in a shade of blue. He’s quiet for a long time, so long that I think the conversation is over. I’m about to stand, head to my bedroom, when he says, “I could help you. Next time we’re off work at the same time.”
I look back at him, surprised at the offer from this person who is basically a stranger. My roommate who eats my discarded olives. Who orders me food when I’m too tired to do it for myself. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. He’s done nothing but offer me help since we met in a fluorescent lit hospital room a week ago.
