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Food first, I decide. Then shower, unpack, and once I have everything in order, I can commence my seduction of Leka.
I pad down the short hall and find my love sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over a mug. A smile of delight breaks across my face. He’s here! my heart sings. He did not go to run some terrible errand for Beefer. He is not at some woman’s house, drinking her wine and climbing into her bed. He’s here at our table, drinking coffee, and waiting for me.
His T-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and then hangs loosely around his narrow waist. He’s got a good ass, which I attribute to all the lifting he must do for Marjory’s. My fingers tingle with the urge to map out the valleys and slopes of all those muscles. One day, I promise myself, one day I will have the right to crawl into his lap, wind my arms around his neck, and kiss that tender, private spot behind his ear. One day soon. I practically skip into the kitchen.
“Hello, Leka.” It feels good to even say his name. “I haven’t eaten much all day and I’m starving. I thought I’d make a—” I pause because I’m not sure what he’s stocked his refrigerator with, but I always remember there being cheese, soup and bread in the house. “—grilled cheese. Want one?”
“No, thank you.”
His response is so formal. I cast an uneasy glance in his direction. He can’t still be angry that I was at Marjory’s. Nothing happened there. Everyone was perfectly polite. The one guy even made me cider and the other line chef was about to get me dinner before Leka showed up.
You’re imagining things, I chide internally. “I’ll make two anyway. If you don’t eat it, I can reheat it in the morning,” I decide. In the refrigerator, I find some cheddar cheese, mozzarella, and a soft, goat cheese. The last one is so unlike Leka that I get another pang of anxiety. Is this a sign of another woman?
I hold it up. “Since when do you like goat cheese?” I ask carelessly as if the wrong answer won’t send me to my bedroom in tears.
“Guy down at the market said it made good sandwiches. Lower melting point or something like. You’ll like it.” Leka barely flicks a gaze away from whatever he’s reading.
I release my death grip on the cheese and set it on the counter, ignoring the indent marks I’ve made with my fingers. It was just the guy at the market, I tell myself. Not another woman.
I take a deep, reassuring breath and look around for the bread. My search skitters to a stop when my eyes land on the table. The colorful brochures and pamphlets aren’t junk mail, but marketing material from colleges. Blood thuds angrily in my ears.
Leka notices my interest and taps on the top brochure labeled USC.
“I called around this evening to some people I know. They told me that there are places that will accept you early. You can be enrolled as soon as their term starts in January.”
“That’s not true.” I’d never heard of that.
He ignores my objection and shoves the brochures forward. I step away from the counter and approach carefully, as if the brochures are snakes ready to poison me. I rifle through them. USC, Stanford, Cal Tech. “Oxford, England?”
He shrugs. “It’s a good place, I hear. Good enough for royalty. Good enough for you.”
I flick the brochures away. “I’m taking a gap year,” I inform him, crossing my arms over my chest.
He frowns, keeping his eyes on the catalog in front of him. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s where you take time off to recharge your batteries, experience the world, and then enter college with a renewed sense of purpose.” It’s where I am going to convince you that we belong together forever. No more separations. No more excuses.
“I thought we agreed you would go to college,” he replies, still not looking at me.
This isn’t how I imagined the reunion would go. I knew it was too much to hope for an immediately enthusiastic welcome, but, I figured, once the shock wore off, Leka would be thrilled. He’d been as alone as me these past four years. His heart had to be sore from missing me as mine ached from missing him. He’d at least hug me. Press a kiss to my cheek. Smile in welcome.
I didn’t expect him to be pushing me out the door even before I took my coat off. I scan the apartment for the boxes. Other than the two bedrooms, there’s only this kitchen and living room with a small hallway leading to the entry. None of my boxes can be seen.
A sense of foreboding creeps over me. Did he leave my boxes in the car? Did he go down and tell the doorman to only deliver the suitcase? Or worse, did the doorman bring up the boxes only to have them refused by Leka. Embarrassment burns my cheeks.
