I gesture at the dog. “You already owe me. This isn’t a three-for-one special.”
“I’m not asking for a fourth card.”
“Then what are you asking for?”
She hesitates. And I watch her internal debate. The pride, the desperation, the part of her that hates needing anything from me more than the actual problem.
“A… humane gesture?” she finally says.
“Try the ASPCA,” I deadpan. “This isn’t a charity.”
She throws up her arms in mock surrender. “Don’t I know it.”
“And yet you’re here.”
“He didn’t have anywhere else to go!”
“He’s a dog. He doesn’t need a penthouse. He needs a floor and a human connection. I am not willing to provide either.”
Ignoring my comments, she sets the dog down on my hardwood floors.
He does a little circle-sniff.
I point at him.
“Tell him if he pees on anything, I’ll shave him and mail the fur to your roommate.”
Tessa doesn’t laugh.
Instead, she turns, surveys the space, and lets out a long, slow exhale.
“Wow,” she says, turning in a slow half-circle. “Okay. This place is… really nice.”
“I know.”
“No, like... absurdly nice. Minimalist meets evil mastermind. Do you hire someone to make it smell like a luxury yacht?”
“No. That’s just success.”
She toes off her Converse at the edge of the living room rug, then pads across the floor in mismatched socks.
And then she does it.
She stretches out across my white sofa.
Shoes off. Legs folded under her. One arm draped over the back.
I stare at her.
She blinks up at the ceiling. “You have molding. Like, actual crown molding. And real art. Not a single college dorm room poster in sight.”
“You thought I would have band posters and ’70s film memorabilia?”
She nods, still looking around. “Yeah. I mean, I expected something like before, when you lived in the dorms and kept antique gavels on a shelf.”
Fuck her for remembering anything from back then. “Off the couch, now.”
She ignores me.
