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“Because I know you,” she said. “You don’t call to chitchat.”
He sighed. “My laundry needs done.”
“You want me to do your laundry?”
“Yes. I don’t know who else to ask.”
“Well, how much money do you have?”
“None.”
All he heard was the sound of laughter before Dia hung up.
Irritated, he picked up armfuls of clothes and tossed them in the hamper before dragging it downstairs. As soon as he reached the laundry room, he heard the humming, soft and sweet like a lullaby. Haven stood in front of the dryer, folding clothes. She glanced at him apprehensively as she quieted, her eyes darting from him to his overfull hamper. He lugged it into the room and opened the washing machine hatch, shoving all the clothes into it. It overflowed, and he had to push on them to get the door closed. He looked around for some detergent and caught Haven’s eyes again as she gaped at him, holding a pair of pants.
He wasn’t sure what her problem was, but he was too aggravated to deal with it. Another week had passed with her avoiding him, dodging from rooms before he could say hello.
“So, where’s the soap?” he asked. “You know, the Tide or whatever we use around here?”
Haven reached behind her and opened a small cabinet, pulling out a jug of laundry detergent. Carmine opened the washer again as he took it from her, and he was about to pour it straight in when Haven sharply inhaled.
The intake of breath stalled him. “What?”
“Shouldn’t you put in the water first?”
He wavered. “Should I?”
“I was taught to start it, put the soap in, and add laundry to the line.”
“What line?”
“The line that tells you how far to fill the machine.”
“There’s a limit?” He set the jug of detergent down before pulling his clothes back out. Haven returned to folding as he glared at the front of the washer. “Where’s the start button?”
“There isn’t a button,” she said. “You choose your setting and pull the dial.”
Her nonchalance at doing laundry annoyed him. “What exactly is my setting? It looks to me like the setting is the goddamn laundry room and the plot is I don’t know how to fucking turn this thing on.”
Her brow furrowed. “Should I . . . do it for you?”
The question caught him off guard. “I don’t know.”
She reached over and turned the dial to colors. It filled with water, and she measured some detergent before putting in half his clothes. She worked briskly, pushing the hamper with the rest of the laundry off to the side before turning back to folding hers.
Carmine stood there, anxious, unsure of what to say. All week long he had invented conversations in his mind, shit he’d say to her when she stopped eluding him, and now that she was in front of him, he drew a blank. “So, you’re good at that shit.”
Awkward.
She smiled softly. “I’ve been doing it my whole life.”
“Yeah, well, this is a first for me,” he muttered. “So, who are you?”
She looked confused. “I told you my name.”
“I know, but that doesn’t tell me who you are. Do you have a last name?”
She continued to fold her laundry. “Antonelli, maybe.”
