Somehow, the lack of music sticks to my head like gnawing urgency. Dragging me back briefly to a time when I never entered her space without the sweet hum of calming songs.
But this—this isn’t unusual anymore.
Ever since I asked her to move in temporarily, she’s mostly kept to the bedroom. Existing behind closed doors and half-drawn curtains.
My mind drifts back to a few nights ago when I’dunintentionally pulled her out of our room.
??????
“Shit.” I yank the kitchen towel off of the oven handle, and throw it at the stupid mixture of foam and soapy water draining out of my dishwasher.
I’m muttering even more colorful profanities under my breath when I hear Cece padding over to the kitchen, barefoot.
“Wait,” I nearly yell, holding my palm up to stop her from stepping into the mini-flood in our kitchen.
Fuck. How did this even happen?
I’d only wanted to do the dishes since we let my housekeeper go. Jasper suggested that we should lock up our ship tighter. Have no strangers in the house that could be tempted to leak any information to the vultures. So I’d asked my regular housekeeping agency to pause on sending anyone to my place.
I could manage my apartment by myself, right? I mean I’d done it when I was in California, at Stanford.
Shit, I had a housekeeper then too.
Wait—didn’t I pause the service for two weeks when Cece spent time here for the first time since we started dating? That was over half a year ago. I’d managed then.
Then I realize pretty quickly that it was probably Cece making it seamless for me.
“What happened?” she croaks, rubbing the back of her hand over her eye.
“I-I don’t know,” I grumble, struggling with a massive roll of paper towels now. “I added the soap, set the dishwasher to a heavy cycle, and… fuck!”
“Soap?” She frowns as she steps closer to the mess I’ve made. “What soap? You mean pods?”
This is the first time I’ve heard her talk this long—in full sentences. Doesn’t matter that those sentences are less than threewords long. But her voice, though fatigued, is still calming as ever.
Then I register her question and freeze. “I mean this,” I say carefully, grabbing the dish soap from the counter. “Soap.”
Did I do something wrong? Why is she looking at me with a flattened expression that is seconds away from an eye-roll?
“That’s the dish soap,” she deadpans.
Iknow.
“Levi.” She sighs, shaking her head.
She walks over to the corner where the dishwasher is, carefully avoiding the foam, and picks up a large basket on the counter.
She fishes out the glass jar sitting inside it and holds it up to let me see. “Dishwasherpods.” Then she points to the bottle in my hand that I’m still stupidly holding. “Dishsoap.”
More words, baby, please.
She exhales heavily, her lips twitching to a reluctant smile as she studies the sheer incomprehension emanating from me. “Dish soap is for hand-washing dishes. The dishwasher has its own liquid or pods. You have pods.”
My mouth parts, eyes darting between the pods and the leaking mess on my floor. “Got it. Fuck.”
Then I hear the most precious sound–a soft chuckle that dies a little too quickly. But I still heard it.
Hell, I’ll use the damn dish soap again and flood my kitchen ten times over, if it gets her to smile again.
