“Very friendly of him,” Barry said, our moment seemingly forgotten.
I grabbed my water, feeling like I needed to scurry out of there stat before I fell into yet more flirting with my non-roommate baby daddy.
“Night, Barry,” I said.
“Goodnight, Harvey.”
CHAPTER 10
AND HE MEAL PREPS
Barry was watching clips of a hockey game on his iPad, hunched over the kitchen island eating carrot chips, when Kate dropped me off after lunch on Monday. He wore a Columbus hoodie, and the house smelled a bit like his body soap.
“Hi,” I said. I dropped my keys on the counter before picking them back up and hanging them from the key hook. Having him in the house made me want to be more orderly.
“Hey. Have you eaten?”
“Mhm.” In an effort to draw out my time away from home, I had convinced Kate to make us omelets. I then walked Greg with her, claiming I needed the productive exercise. She was thrilled that I was “prioritizing movement.”
“Great,” Barry said. I nodded and so did he, and it was so uncomfortable, quietly standing in my own kitchen like this. “Can we talk?”
I clicked my tongue, which was less casual than I’d hoped.
“Can I shower first?” I asked.
“Oh,” Barry looked at me again like he was just now noticing the way hair matted to my forehead after sweating all morning. I hadn’t showered before leaving, even, so I smelled bad, bad, bad. “Yeah, of course.”
“Great.” I sent some approximation of finger guns at him, passed away immediately, and then retreated to the bathroom. I thudded my fist against my forehead and got undressed until remembering I’d forgotten my clothes. I got redressed, becausethe thought of Barry seeing me in a towel was stressful, and retrieved a new, mostly clean outfit.
I never knew what to expect with Barry. He was liable to be vulnerable at any moment, or helpful, or both. In the shower, I did a deep condition on my hair, shaved my legs, then stood under the hot water scrolling on my phone until my social media timed out for the rest of the day. I thought about clicking “Remind me in 15 minutes,” but decided better of it and turned off the water.
I found other things to do, though. I had to moisturize everywhere, use the stomach cream, brush my teeth, floss, mouthwash, lustrous hair cream—I almost started clipping my nails, but even I could admit I was being ridiculous.
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, Barry was still at the island, but now he had an open container of a colorful veggie salad on the counter next to him. He also wore white wired headphones, very focused on what he was watching, shoulders hunched just so as he squinted at the screen, distractedly took a bite of salad, chewed. Junior meowed at my feet and brushed his body against my ankles until I leaned down to pet him.
I picked him up and brought him with me.
“Okay,” I said, but Barry didn’t hear me. Or even see me, apparently, because even though I was standing right in the doorway, he stayed glued to his screen. He scratched his neck and reached for the salad without looking, missing first, and then getting his fork. I watched his lips as he chewed but then decided I shouldn’t look at his lips ever again and turned my attention to his forehead instead. It was another minute before he looked up from his iPad, and he jumped when he did.
“How long have you been standing there?” he asked.
“Just got here,” I said. “What are you working on?”
Barry exhaled and wrapped the headphones around his fingers. “Watching game film for tomorrow.”
“Why?” Is this what they did on the big screens in the roomwith the nice couches outside the locker room? Strategically watch other hockey games?
“Trying to get familiar with their play style,” Barry said. This meant nothing to me and my face must’ve said as much because he smiled. “If I can know what the other players are good at, I can try to account for them when I play against them.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize there was so much strategy involved.” I put Junior on the counter and started filling up my water bottle. “Is it fun for you?”
“Not really,” Barry admitted. I twisted the faucet and leaned on the counter. “Playing is fun, sometimes. Often. It was my dream as a kid, you know? Now I still love it, but it’s more tiring. I’m not nineteen anymore.”
“You were playing professional hockey as a teenager?”
“Yeah, dream come true. I couldn’t believe it.”
I couldn’t help but think of what I was doing as a nineteen-year-old. I was working part time for Harvey Janitorial, going to school, helping take care of my grandma after hip surgery. I wasn’t exceptionally good at anything, except maybe making Pinterest boards and trying new banana bread recipes. He was so accomplished and had been so since he was a teenager.
