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“How about some takeout tonight?” I suggested.
I didn’t want him to think he always needed to make dinner, though I could tell he enjoyed it. We stayed inside most of the week, except for walking Oscar. I hadn’t suggested eating out because I had a feeling that would overwhelm him—at least right now, when he was just getting used to the idea of being safe and sound.
“Sounds good,” he replied.
It was as if he was reintegrating into society and needed to go slowly.
Fine by me.
“You can decide. The menus are in the drawer next to the stove.”
It’d been over a week since I’d helped Lachlan get off the streets, and I’d thought it might get awkward and that maybe at first we’d fumble around each other. But it felt natural, comfortable. I enjoyed having him around, and not only because he loved hanging with my dog and cooking dinner. Or that other thing, where we sought pleasure in each other a few more times, which felt bone-meltingly good.
“You shaved,” I said as I came through the door that evening, his handsome face more on display than it had been that morning. Now his beard was just a neatly trimmed goatee, and I didn’t want to call too much attention to it, but it must’ve meant he was feeling more comfortable. More settled. At least I hoped so.
His cheeks stained red. “Yeah, I figured it was time. The days are getting warmer.”
I hung my bag on the hook near the door. “It looks good.”
“Thanks.” He set the laptop aside. He’d continued to tweak his résumé and began his search online, but he didn’t share much more with me about where he might apply and what he was interested in. I didn’t want him to think I was prying or rushing him. It was important he thought it through and got his bearings. “Pizza was delivered five minutes ago.”
“Awesome, I’m famished.”
He stood and met me in the kitchen, where I was greeting Oscar. “I just fed him dinner.”
“Cool.” I headed to the sink to wash my hands. “I’ll grab some plates.”
We sat at the kitchen island, sharing a large pepperoni pizza and talking about our day. He admitted to looking up his old salon online.
“How did that make you feel?”
“Sick to my stomach, which doesn’t make sense.”
“It sort of does, though.” I reached for a third slice—Lachlan had barely finished one. “That place is tied to your old life with your ex.”
“True.” He picked at his crust. “But it’s not only that. I’m not sure what I want anymore, and being a hairstylist is all I know.”
“Did you use to enjoy it?”
“I did. But now I feel like there’s got to be more. More to my life.” He screwed his eyes shut. “My thoughts are all over the place.”
“It’s okay.” I pressed my shoulder against his. “You’re allowed to take your time and figure stuff out. There’s no rush.”
“But I can’t impose—”
“It’s only been a week.” Something caught my eye on the television screen, which was muted in the living room. “Holy shit.”
I stood and went to turn up the volume. It was a news story about an incident near the waterfront on 9th, where a houseless man had been stabbed. “Do you know him?”
Lachlan was right behind me, watching with widened eyes. “He seems familiar.”
“What if the assailant is the same guy that sprayed you?” When they moved on to the next story, I muted the television again. Feeling too on edge, I began clearing the leftovers in the kitchen. The way Lachlan pushed away his plate, he’d lost his appetite as well. “Have you given any more thought to filing a police report? Starting a paper trail of crimes?”
He shook his head, fear evident in his eyes. “I told you, I don’t want to bring attention to us.”
Us. He used the word as if he were still houseless, still part of that demographic, and how could he not? It’d only been a week. He’d only just gotten used to sleeping on a mattress in a stranger’s apartment. He’d shared how vulnerable he’d felt at night, and I’d made sure to check on him and sit with him sometimes. He left the door cracked so Oscar could come and go as he pleased. More times than not, Oscar ended up in the guest room with Lachlan.
“I know it sounds risky, but if nothing is ever reported…” I moved toward the sink with the plates. “Damn it, I just hate the idea of that guy getting away with assaulting people.”
Riled up about the topic, I didn’t look where I was going, and when I tripped on the corner of the throw rug, the plates slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor. “Goddamn it!” I looked at the mess I’d made.
Face hot, I went for the broom and dustpan, and happened to glance in Lachlan’s direction. His hands were raised in what looked like protective mode, and he’d backed away from the counter.
