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“Oh, it’s not your fault,” I assure him, walking over. “It kind of bit it the other day and I just, like, propped it back up. Haven’t gotten around to fixing it yet. I should’ve warned you.”
“Well, why didn’t you ask me to fix it for you?” Rex asks, sounding irritated.
“Um. I didn’t think about it,” I say.
“But it’s what I do for a living,” Rex says, his hands out in confusion.
“Well, okay, I’m sure you’d do a better job than me, Rex, but I’m not some pathetic idiot who can’t fix a goddamned table.”
“I don’t think you’re pathetic,” he says, sounding exasperated. “I just don’t understand why you won’t ever accept my help.”
“What are you talking about? You fixed my wall and my light—”
“That actually was my job,” he interrupts.
“You rescued me from a snowstorm. You’ve cooked me whole meals.”
“Because I wanted to! I like to cook for you.”
“You just think I can’t do simple adult things,” I mutter. I’m not sure where that came from, but I’m pretty sure I believe it. Rex’s mouth drops open and at first he looks like he’s going to shake it off. Then he looks around at my apartment and kicks at a leg of my kitchen table, splayed like a broken dancer on the floor.
“You live on coffee and bagels unless I cook for you,” he says. “Your car is a deathtrap that you’ve held together with a wire hanger. You won’t talk to your landlord about making your apartment safe to actually live in. You moved to Michigan and you don’t have a winter coat! It’s like you don’t even care about what happens to you.”
“No! You just think you need to rescue me. Even the night we met, you rescued me—me and Marilyn. That’s all you’ve done is rescue me, like I’m some damsel in distress. Well, I don’t need to be rescued! I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?” Rex growls, advancing on me. “I’m not so sure.”
“What the fuck!” My hands are fisted at my sides. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? Do you know how long I’ve taken care of myself? How many times I’ve been jumped or mugged or gotten my ass kicked? And I’ve handled it. I’ve handled myself just fine. You know how many times I’ve gone to lectures for the cheese cubes and stale crackers at the reception because I can’t afford to buy food? Huh?”
I’m shouting now, so furious that Rex apparently thinks I’m just as weak and pathetic as my brothers do that my heart is pounding.
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“Anyway, if you think I’m such a pathetic fucking mess then why are you even here?” I shove Rex’s shoulder. Not hard, just in frustration, but it’s like pushing up against a mountain.
Rex freezes. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, and then just shakes his head, hands on his hips.
“Have a safe trip, Daniel,” he says evenly. Then he walks out, closing the door gently behind him. His truck starts outside.
“Fuck!” I yell, punching the door. “Shit, ouch.” I always forget how much that hurts.
I turn around and lean back against the door where Rex was kissing me a few minutes ago. My kitchen looks like a crime scene. The table is slumped onto the peeling linoleum, and the light over what used to be the kitchen table is swinging a little, casting eerie shadows. My duffel bag gapes open on the bed, my jacket on the floor. The whole place looks dingy and sad. It smells like ramen noodles and Band-Aids even though I haven’t made ramen noodles lately and I couldn’t tell you the last time I actually owned a Band-Aid.
Goddammit, this is why I don’t date.
Chapter 8
October
I DIDN’T sleep well at all last night. Rex’s face kept drifting into my head—that expression he got when I yelled at him. As if he were holding out something to share with me and I knocked it into the dirt like a bully with an ice cream cone.
I mean, is it, like, a requirement that just because he builds things professionally I’m not allowed to fix my own table? God, I can only imagine my brothers or my dad if they saw me calling my boyfriend for help because I couldn’t even fix a simple table.
Wait. Did I just think of Rex as my boyfriend? How do you know if someone’s your boyfriend? Oh Christ. This is why I don’t date.
I just need to have a quick meeting with a student and then I can get the hell out of here. I can’t wait to be gone. I definitely need a break. And a huge coffee.
“HI,” I say to Marjorie at the counter of Sludge. “Can I get—?”
“Don’t you want to look at the board before you order?” she cuts me off, smiling a little too wide.
