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Staring at the door that had been painted red at one time but was now faded at the center thanks to years of exposure to the sun, time crawled. Not crawled, stopped.
By the time Arwyn finally came to the door, Sloane was near ready to pass out, as if she’d been held underwater and mercifully yanked out by her hair by Arwyn’s arrival.
“Hey,” Arwyn greeted, stepping back from the doorway while kicking something with her bare heel and shutting a closet door with her hip. Judging by the synthetic lavender scent wafting out of the apartment, she was concealing a mop and bucket. Based on how strong the smell was, it could’ve also been a firehose connected to Fabuloso factory.
“Come in,” she added after a beat.
“Thanks,” she replied, resisting the urge to dip her head.
She wasn’t that tall, and the ceilings weren’t that low, but the place was compact enough that Sloane imagined being a tiger in one of those illegal and tragically tiny circus cages.
“Here, I didn’t want to show up empty handed.”
Arwyn glanced down at the chilled bottle of Chardonnay she’d grabbed from the wine fridge on the way out of the house. The French delicacy was a lovely juxtaposition to
Arwyn’s leggings, loose faded t-shirt, and oversized tortoise shell glasses.
“Thanks,” she smiled, dimples on display, “you didn’t have to do that.”
Sloane had never been anywhere so small. Even the Manhattan apartment she’d shared over the summer had been enormous by comparison. From the doorway, she could literally see the entire thing. The living room was so tight there wasn’t space for a co ee table. It morphed directly into the kitchen where a bistro table straddled both areas. The two doors at the other end of the room she assumed led to the bathroom and bedroom.
“I know it’s not what you’re used to, but I couldn’t stand living with a roommate,” she explained with a nervous chuckle as if reading her mind.
“It’s great,” Sloane replied before deciding it was true. It was smaller than a walk-in closet of the ultra-rich, but it was cozy and warm. At least it felt more like a home than her sterile accommodations. Empty beauty was worth less than Sloane had ever realized.
“Do you want to sit down?” Arwyn asked, holding the wine bottle awkwardly like the wrong move might detonate it.
Did she expect me to just drop o the video? Does she actually want me to sit or politely make an excuse about the time?
As Sloane tried to read the unspoken intent in Arwyn’s words, her stomach growled embarrassingly loud.
Arwyn laughed, looking like she’d unclenched at least one muscle. “Are you hungry?”
From under the flood of humiliation, Sloane shook her head as she backed toward the door. “No, I’m fine—”
Another animalistic cry from her gastrointestinal system interrupted her attempts at declining graciously. Sloane’s hand snapped to her stomach as if digging her palm into her gut would stop the madness.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Let me fix you something,” she decided, turning toward the kitchen which took up only a single wall. Almost like a playset rather than the real thing.
Sloane dawdled awkwardly by the door. “It’s fine, really. I don’t want to put you out,” she called, wishing she’d just dropped o the stupid video.
What the hell was I expecting?
When Arwyn ignored her protestations, Sloane relented.
Dropping her purse on the couch, she followed Arwyn to the kitchen.
“Reheating something in the microwave isn’t that much of a challenge, don’t worry,” she assured her, setting the bottle on the Formica counter as she opened the tall but slender fridge. “I’ve got lasagna, stu ed peppers, baked chicken and veggies, stir-fry, and,” she stuck her head further into the fridge, “spaghetti.”
Sloane peered into the neatly packed fridge. “Wow, I didn’t know you cooked.”
She laughed, the sound warming Sloane like hot cocoa on a snowy day. “Definitely not. My mom, however, is amazing.
The world’s only chef-level lunch lady.”
Sloane’s lip twitched, but she stopped the smile from forming. “Which is your least favorite?”
“Lasagna, hands down. I hate ricotta, but I don’t have the heart to tell my mom,” she admitted, the light from the refrigerator illuminating her face as she glanced back at her.
