Page 49 of Play Nice

Austin walks up the driveway toward me, where I rinse paint brushes with the hose. There’s a utility sink in the garage, but I’m avoiding going in there, afraid there will be dead mice stuck to the glue traps.

“Come to borrow a cup of sugar?” I ask him.

He waits to reply until he’s right in front of me.

“Yeah, actually,” he says, kissing me on the lips.

“Don’t be cute,” I tell him. “It’s a turn-off.”

“Can’t make any promises,” he says, following me inside. “How you been?”

“Busy,” I say. “I was hoping you’d come by.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I need someone to hold the ladder.”

He laughs. “You’re putting me to work?”

“The door is behind you,” I say. “Should you choose to use it.”

He won’t. I’m wearing cutoff jean shorts, tube socks, and a white tank top with a pink bra underneath. I’m covered in paint and sweat. My hair is in space buns. I’m a girl-next-door fantasy.

He helps me prime the living room, and as a thank-you I order us Thai food.

“Do you do this for a living?” he asks, gesturing to the house.

“No,” I say.

“Really? You seem like a pro.”

“I’m just good at everything.”

“I’m gathering that,” he says. “What do you do?”

“I’m a stylist,” I say. “And a fashion influencer.”

I expect him to pull a face, like most people do at the word “influencer.” But he doesn’t.

“What about you?” I ask him.

“I’m a nurse,” he says. “I work at a senior facility.”

“Then why did you tell me you were a fuckup?” I’ve hooked up with NHL and NFL and MLB players, with actors and models, with professors and archaeologists, with New York’s leading brain surgeon, but senior care nurse might be the hottest job of all time.

For some reason, I’m now thinking about Mom and Roy. Wondering if she was attracted to him because of his weird job, or if it was just him, if it wouldn’t have mattered if he was a gym teacher. I imagine it’s probably the former, because if you believe in demons, what hotter job is there than demon expert?

“I was going to be a doctor,” Austin says, mouth full of spring roll.

“Close enough,” I say. If he wants to tell me what happened, why he’s not a doctor, he will. I’m not going to ask.

He laughs. “Glad you think so.”

“I love old people. They have the best stories. Give great advice. No filter, no ego,” I say. “Very old people and very young people. They’re the most fun.”

“They’re always asking me to get them drugs,” he says. “Drugs and chocolate. And butter.”

“You’re a mule.”