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“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.”
“Maybe?”
“I don’t really have one, but that’s his.”
He cocked his head to the side, studying her. “Whose?”
“My master’s.”
“What do you mean your master?”
“You know, my master where I came from.”
No, he didn’t know. “Where did you come from?”
“Blackburn. California, I think.”
“You think? Did you live there long?”
She nodded. “Until I came here.”
“And you’re not sure where it is?” He was stunned. “Did you hate the place or something?”
“Depends on what you mean by that.”
“Explain it to me.”
She sighed. “I didn’t like my master, but I had someone there who understood me.”
“What about here?”
