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Ididn’tgetadecent look into the interior of Dom’s apartment earlier, so I took a moment to soak in his space. He lived in a small studio apartment. To the right of the front door was a tiny eat-in kitchen. A round, wooden table that barely fit four chairs sat in the corner underneath one of the only two windows in the apartment. To the left was one large room. A queen bed sat underneath the other window, and across the room a tv was hung up on a brick wall. A small couch rested at the foot of the bed, and on one side of it was a reclining chair with a large lamp behind it, the other side of the bed had a dresser, and a door that seemed to lead into the closet. Next to the television was a desk no bigger than the dining room table, scattered with books, files, and a laptop left open.
It was much smaller than I imagined. Dom walks through life like he owns it, and he’d make you feel like he bleeds cash. I imagined him living somewhere annoyingly extravagant. Though, I supposed, now that I know him better, it makes sense he’s living somewhere like this. It’s how he saved up to buy a house, and pay to have it renovated.
Despite the size, the building was decent. It reminded me of the apartment Penelope and I moved into when we first came to L.A.
“It only seems so messy because it’s small. I’m not a total slob.” He laughed awkwardly as he caught me staring across his studio.
Clearly, if he felt the need to defend himself, he hadn’t paid much attention to my bedroom when he slept there. He had clothes piled on the floor in a corner outside the closet, and his desk was cluttered. His bed was hastily made. Otherwise, though, the apartment seemed clean.
“But I bought a house, I’m doing some work on it now and I’ll be able to move in the spring, so…” he trailed off as I glanced at him and smiled.
“I know, you told me.” I chuckled. “Where is your house?”
“Pacific Palisades. I mostly cover the Santa Monica area for my firm, so I wanted to stay close. Less of a commute. Plus, I want to be near the beach.” He was rambling, almost nervously. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why. “My house is kind of small. It’s only two bedrooms. But, y’know, that’s still a step up from here.” He outstretched his hands, referencing the space around us.
I laughed. “Dominic, shut up.”
He blinked at me.
“I don’t care how small your apartment is, or the house you justbought. The point is, they areyours. I have to live with Carter and Penelope. I can’t even afford to pay rent with roommates. Stop overexplaining yourself. I’m already impressed by you.”
His breath caught before his mouth relaxed into a glittering smile. He inclined his head slightly before motioning for me to follow him into the kitchen.
I offered to help with dinner, but it was clear his kitchen was far too small for us to work around each other. Instead, I leaned against the counter and watched him as he made some kind of pasta. He described it to me as he was cooking, but I was only half paying attention, more focused on him. The way his body flexed through each of his movements, the way he gracefully moved about the kitchen.
He had changed into a plain black t-shirt that stretched taut across his chest and arms, and a pair of jeans that fit him too well. I wore a black, knee-length dress that hugged the few curves I did have, with a copper sweater I’d stolen from Penelope thrown over my shoulders.
As Dom cooked, we talked more about my career– whether or not I was excited to return to work in the next couple of weeks. I wasn’t. Not really. He asked me questions about what I saw myself doing for a career when I was younger. That turned into us talking about our childhoods, telling stories. Which in turn, became the two of us comparing growing up in Oregon to living in Los Angeles now. Finally, our conversation landed on the topic of coffee. The native Oregon drive-through coffee stands we cherished, versus the nation-wide coffee shops that dotted every street corner here in California, and how much the both of us struggled to find any local place that could compare what we were used to back home.
It felt like no time had passed, but suddenly we found ourselves sitting down at his tiny dining table, candles lit, and plates full of pasta. Pasta that was far superior to what we’d eaten at that Italian restaurant a few days ago when we went skiing.
“Okay, Mace, your turn,” he said suddenly.
“What?” I asked, mouth full of shrimp and noodles.
“I told you a hard truth. You saw through my deepest mask.” I assumed he was referring to our conversation in the car earlier. “Now, it’s your turn.” He nodded at me. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” he drawled. “And I know how much you enjoyed the other night.” He sipped from his glass. “So, tell me why you threw me out.”
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly feeling dry. “I was telling the truth,” I said, referencing the words I’d spoken yesterday morning.
I was afraid things would become too messy—too complicated—if we continued hooking up. After today, I felt a little better. I felt more confident that with or without sex, Dom and I would remain friends. But after today, I also feared that I may be feeling something much stronger than friendship, and casual sex with him would only amplify the feelings I probably shouldn’t be having.
“Tell me what you’re so afraid of.”
“You know why I don’t like getting too close to people, apparently. I’m not sure why I need to keep explaining that.” I absent-mindedly twirled the pasta around my fork. He seemed to think he had me so figured out when he claimed I pushed people away to keep them from leaving me first. He was probably right about that, but this situation– him. It was different. I hated when I befriended someone only to have them decide later I wasn’t their cup of tea.
Because I’m not tea. I’m more like… a shot of espresso.
A lot at once, and too bitter to savor. People either want to knock me back and move on, or they want to make me something different, something sweeter. Something that I’m not. So, my entire life I’ve had to choose between being temporary for most people– only being tolerated in short doses, when they need something extra, when they’re tired of their same routine. Or, choose to let someone mix me into the thing they want me to taste like, so that I’m easier to swallow.
That’s what Jeremy tried to do to me, and I won’t ever allow that to happen again.
Dom is bored, and he needs a distraction. He needed something to jerk him awake and help him move forward during the holidays. When work is slow, and his best friend is away, and he isn’t healed enough to be with his own family. I’m his shot of espresso that’ll get him through the new year, but after that he’ll probably find he’d like to switch back to tea, or cream and sugar.
I’ll become too bitter, too strong, a bit too much.
