“You have to have an opinion.”
“I really don’t.”
She settles on a home renovation show where people yell about open-concept living and shiplap. I’ve never understood the appeal, but she seems into it, so I don’t complain.
We sit in silence for a while. Not awkward silence—just quiet. Comfortable.
When was the last time I felt comfortable with another person?
“This couple is making a huge mistake,” Winnie says, pointing at the screen. “They’re taking out that load-bearing wall, and their contractor clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“You know about load-bearing walls?”
“My dad’s a contractor. I grew up on job sites.” She tucks her feet under her. “I know way too much about structural support and building codes. It’s a very specific skill set.”
“That’s actually useful.”
“Right? Except no one ever asks for construction advice at parties.” She grins. “What about you? Any weird hidden skills?”
I think about it. “I can cook.”
“Really?”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
“No, it’s just—you don’t seem like the cooking type. You seem like the ‘protein bars and takeout’ type.”
“I eat a lot of protein bars because they’re convenient. But I can actually cook. I taught myself in college.” I shrug. “Had to. Couldn’t afford to eat out all the time, and meal plans are a scam.”
“What’s your specialty?”
“Pasta, mostly. Some stir-fry. I make a decent breakfast.”
“Banks Callahan, making breakfast.” She shakes her head, smiling. “The layers keep revealing themselves.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything.
The food arrives, and we eat on the bed like teenagers at a sleepover. She abandons her food and moves on to the chocolate cake—she eats half of it before I even finish my burger.
“Don’t judge me,” she says around a mouthful of frosting. “I stress-eat chocolate. It’s a coping mechanism.”
“I’m not judging.”
She licks chocolate off her thumb. “I just—I don’t want to screw this up. This job is a big deal to me.”
“You’re doing great. You shouldn’t stress. Everyone loves you.”
She gives me a warm smile, and something loosens in my chest. This is easy. Being with her. I don’t have to perform or pretend or be anything other than what I am. She doesn’t expect more.
“Bathroom?” I ask, because the two large bottles of water are catching up with me.
“Through there.” She points without looking away from the screen, where a couple is arguing about countertop materials.
The bathroom is small—standard hotel setup. Toilet, sink, shower with a glass door. I do what I came to do, wash my hands, and I’m reaching for the towel when I see it.
Sitting on the counter, next to her makeup bag, casual as anything.
A vibrator.
