Page 91 of Back for Seconds

“Wow.” I turned slowly in June’s living room. “It looks incredible in here.”

She flashed a nervous smile at me. “You think?”

“Absolutely. Now you just need a rug, a TV stand, and a few more books to fill your shelf.”

“I’d love to buy more books.” She said this in a small, wistful voice before letting out a nervous laugh. “Anyway—you know where the dryer is, right?”

“I do.” I started down the hall. She clearly wanted to keep our pleasantries limited—or wanted me to know that nothing had changed about her need for time and space. I pulled open the closet door, turned on my miniature flashlight, and got to work investigating the dark bowels of the contraption. “Do you have a screwdriver?”

“Uh huh.” June slid off somewhere down the hallway, returning with a toolbox. “Um, want anything to drink? Coffee, maybe?”

I kept my eyes fixed on the small screw I was trying to remove from the back of the dryer. Coffee. The first thing she’d ever made me. “Sounds good.” I was trying to keep my voice neutral, unaffected. But to my own ear, I sounded like someone was twisting both my nipples.

June disappeared into the kitchen, probably relieved, and I spent the better part of the next hour shoved into the dark closet, trying to work in the limited space even though my shoulders were always touching at least two walls. Eventually, I yanked the dryer out into the hallway, then pulled apart all of the different panels, following various tubes and duct ways to understand what could possibly be wrong. I didn’t know a lot about dryers, but I knew enough about shitty construction work and this particular house to know that there was probably something wrong with how the dryer was venting.

“Do you know if anyone is living on the second floor right now?” I asked, lifting the hem of my T-shirt to dry my hairline. I’d made the mistake of pulling a knit hat on over my curls before leaving the house, and now I was too afraid of what might be happening under the hat to take it off. I’d taken off as many layers as I could, down to a tank top and jeans. “Maybe it was their dryer you were smelling.”

June had joined me in the narrow hallway, worrying at her bottom lip, arms crossed over her chest. Her long hair was in two braids, one over each shoulder, and she had her glasses on. She was wearing an adorable pair of oversized overalls, cuffed at her ankles and cinched at her waist. The entire situation felt like a Mad Libs porno scenario. Broken dryer, sexy glasses, big dumb man in a tank top. I tightened my already white-knuckled grip on my screwdriver and flashlight.

“The second and third floor have been empty since we—since I bought the place. I think the owner rents them out in August, but that’s it. Plus, when I opened the door, more smoke—or, I don’t know, air vapors poured out. I don’t think it was smoke—it was too fragrant and humid.”

I nodded, trying to keep my attention focused on the dryer. “Ok. How about we run a load and see if it happens again? Because I think I know what the issue might be—but I just need to double-check.”

She nodded and pointed past me, toward her bedroom. “I just need to uh, grab some stuff for the dryer.”

I nodded and tried to flatten myself against the wall, holding up my hands so I, in no way—not even accidentally, could touch her. This barely helped; June did her best to squeeze by, between me and the dryer, but she was curvy and despite her best efforts, her hips grazed me as she passed.

Grazed.

As in, barely touched.

And here I was sweating.

I stepped out of the hallway entirely before June made her way back, moving into the kitchen where I found she’d poured me a mug of coffee and set out almond milk and her jar of honey.

This entire day was pure torture.

I set down my tools, fixed my drink, and braced myself for the deluge of yearning my first sip would bring.

“Ok,” June said, sweeping into the kitchen—obviously a little flustered herself. “I just put my clothes in and set it to a quick cycle, so we’ll see in about five minutes if it all starts smoking again.”

“Sounds good.” I stepped out of her pathway, leaning back against the sink. She spent some time needlessly banging around the room—getting a mug, putting away the almond milk, riffling through her mail.

Finally, when she stood still long enough, she frowned at me. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” I shrugged, hiding my smile behind a gulp of coffee. “It’s cute, what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re running around—scampering like a little mouse, trying to hide from me.”

“I am not scampering. I am not a mouse.”

“Whatever you say, Juneb—”

“Don’t call me Junebug.”

Well, that had struck a nerve. I held up my free hand in surrender, then mimed zipping my lips. We stood opposite each other, drinking in silence, June regarding me through narrowed eyes, and I her with a smile still teasing at the corner of my lips.