I’m immediately aware of the chaos I naturally leave in my wake every time I walk out the door. Discarded shoes by the front door. My yoga mat in front of the TV. Multiple mugs containing various liquids in various degrees of sludge. And the coup de grâce: an open box of Lucky Charms next to an empty bowl, the last drags of sugary milk concreted in the bottom.
No, wait. There’s also a hastily discarded bra draped over a basket of folded laundry.
This is not the stage from which anyone could deliver a thoughtful, moderate, adult-ish speech.
Cool. Great. Love this for me.
Stifling a burst of embarrassment, I turn toward him and blurt, “My roommate is the worst.”
His gaze shifts across the room, no doubt cataloging all the crap I don’t want him to see. Then he smirks. “Thought you said you lived alone.”
“I used to. But then”—Who am I kidding? Noother human would live like this.—“a feral raccoon moved in.”
His smug smirk morphs into a rare, full-on grin, and suddenly I don’t care that he knows I live like a feral raccoon.
There’s a loud thump from the other room.
Miller tenses for just a second, until my cat enters from the bedroom. “Is that the raccoon?”
I heft Nero into my arms and present him to Miller. “Actually, this is Nero.” Then I take a step back. “You’re not allergic are you?”
“Nope.” He steps forward to let Nero sniff his fingers. “Nero? After the Roman Emperor?”
“Yep.”
“The one notorious for his debauchery and self-indulgence?”
“Can you think of a better name for a cat?” Nero is a twenty-five pound Maine Coon mutt with the fluid dynamics of a sea slug. Since he’s starting to seep out of my arms, I set him down. “Besides, he’s a rescue and had a troubled kittenhood. He’s earned his life of luxury.”
I wander to the kitchen and make sure Nero’s automatic feeder and water fountain have done their job in my absence.
“Make yourself at home,” I say, becausePlease pretend I don’t live like a frat boyseems like I’d beasking too much. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Tap water?”
“Tavey,” Miller says, his tone gentle.
I’m about to make a joke asking if he wants me on the rocks or straight up. Thankfully, I hear the double entendre in my head before the words can leave my mouth.
So instead, I just turn to face him, suddenly aware how small my living room is.
There’s nowhere to go.
No windshield to stare through.
No sunglasses to hide behind.
No movement to soften the edges of this moment.
Just us.
And everything we didn’t say.
He’s leaning back against the door, arms loose at his sides, watching me with that steady, patient focus that is either deeply comforting or completely destabilizing depending on how emotionally compromised I am.
Currently: both.
And all that’s left is that speech I mentally rehearsed on the drive back.
“Here’s the thing, Miller?—”
