His face registers shock. “Oh God, Blythe. Shit, what time is it? I forgot you were…I mean…fuck!” The bag crinkles in his hand, and he looks at me with a mix of embarrassment and apology. “I’m so sorry.”
I put the coffee tray on the floor of the deck and turn to go back down the stairs. “You suck, Sabin.”
He grabs me by the arm and pulls me against him, forcing me into a hug. I try to shove him away, but he won’t let me.
“Fuck! I’m so sorry. I’m an asswipe! A total jerk! Tie me up, and eat all the bagels in front of me in a form of weird but possibly titillating torture.” He lifts me off my feet and squeezes harder. “Please forgive me!”
“I…can’t…breathe…” I eke out the words.
He sets me down and steps back. “Now, let me get a look at you.” He squints and peers intently at me. “Not bad for a bagel delivery girl.”
“I brought stupid coffees, too,” I snarl.
“Oh, hell. Someone is very, very mad at Sabin,” he says.
“Someone did not realize she had been penciled in for a visit between prostitutes,” I spit out with a bit more venom than I intended.
Sabin blanches. “Well, shit. I didn’t realize you’d crossed paths with, um…um…”
“Oh my God, Sabin! You don’t even know her name?”
“I do. Just give me a minute.”
“I don’t care what her name is.”
“Evidently, neither did I.” His smile pisses me off. “But she wasn’t a hooker.”
“I’m so glad that I flew thousands of miles for this welcome. Thanks, Sabin.”
I’ve run halfway down the stairs when he says in the most pathetic voice, “I fucked up, okay?”
I stop and wait.
“I’m really, really sorry,” he says. “Blythe, don’t go. You can’t. I’m going to make this all up to you. Look, I fucked up real bad, but you have to forgive me. Please?”
I stomp back up the stairs and push my way into his tree house. “The croissant and the black coffee are mine.”
“Now, we’re talking!” he whoops.
Despite my severe irritation, the sight of the interior forces me to smile genuinely. It’s absolutely adorable, a studio apartment like no other, with stunning wood walls and floors. It’s a small space, but one that appears to have everything he needs. I walk into an area with a love seat, armchair, and coffee table. Then, I go through the eat-in kitchen, passing a small dining table, and I enter another sitting area—this one, a perfect circle—that’s next to a window overlooking a small pond with a view of the mountains.
A full-sized futon is propped up for lounging, and Sabin’s guitar rests on the cushion. I trace the shape of it with one finger. This guitar is so familiar to me that I know every shade of color streaking the front, the few scratches and dings from years of being hauled from place to place, and a couple of marks from old drunken sloppiness.
Sabin keeps quiet as I explore. I’m trying to take in everything so that I can connect with this new life he’s built, but right now, I just feel overwhelmed with how much I don’t know. The guitar is about the only thing of his that I recognize.
I stand by the window and watch the ducks flapping in the water. Sabin comes to stand next to me, and without looking at him, I take the coffee he hands me.
“Where do you sleep?” I ask.
“Look up.”
So, I do, and that’s when I see the raised ceiling that rises into a tower of sorts with a loft area off to one side.
Sabin reaches above his head and pulls down a ladder. “After you.”
The steps are wide, and it’s less of a rickety climb than I thought, which is good because I’m not parting with my coffee. I emerge to a platform king-sized bed under a sloped ceiling. There are built-in shelves where he’s put folded clothes, and I set my cup on the top shelf.
Because there’s not really anywhere else to go, I crawl onto the bed. I look up through the skylight and watch as branches blow in the light breeze.
