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“Slater.” My relief wars with surprise. “Why aren’t you in New York?” And why are you in my apartment? The shock of seeing him in my space temporarily paralyzes me. I assumed it’d be weeks, or months, or years before I saw him again.
“I wanted to see you,” he says.
He wanted to see me. That means something. What does it mean? I try not to read too much into those simple words.
He moves toward me. My apartment is small. The kitchen and dining room—which is a very generous definition for a space that only fits a tiny table and two chairs—are separated from the living room by a half wall. An oversized grey couch flanked by two modern plum chairs dominates the living space. The coffee table has an artful array of skillfully arranged books. Built-in shelves hold an assortment of books, art, photos, and knickknacks. I’ve always considered it cozy, but with Slater sucking up the space, it feels microscopic.
As he gets closer, I note that he’s still clean shaven.
Water runs off his heavy jacket and drips onto the floor. Puddles start to form. I attempt to ignore them. It’s just water. It will dry. The urge to grab a mop distracts me from replying for so long that the silence becomes awkward.
“You didn’t return my call,” he says when he pauses near the shelves.
“I…I’m sorry,” I finally say.
He called me yesterday afternoon and left the strangest message I’ve ever received. He said, “You left. I thought you’d be here longer.” And then he hung up. I should have called him back. I shouldn’t have ignored him when I was still in New York. I’m a crappy…whatever we are.
“Have you spoken with Kelsey?” He studies me intently.
“Unfortunately, yes.” It was not a conversation I would care to repeat. She was irritated, mostly because I hadn’t called her with the news I’d seen Slater naked the moment it happened. We had to discuss boundaries—we need some—and privacy—I get some. “I can’t believe you told her we slept together.” He doesn’t seem like the type to kiss-and-tell. Plus, as far as I know, he’s always had limited interactions with my sister.
“She figured it out. I stopped by to see you and she guessed.” He winces. “I could have handled it differently, but I thought she already knew.”
Now it’s my turn to wince. I did make a huge fuss about Kelsey tracking where I am. “She knows now.” Then I apologize again. “I’m sorry I left without telling you.”
He shuffles his feet. “I thought maybe you were…uh…mad. I thought you saw the pictures of me with Amber and got the wrong idea.”
“Pictures?” I raise my brow. When she called, Kelsey didn’t mention any pictures.
“They were taken outside of Amber’s place. They look intimate.” He wrinkles his nose.
“I thought Amber was touring?”
“She is. She made an unexpected detour into the city between shows.”
“And you were canoodling?” I’ve seen them together so I know how they interact—it would be easy to mistake their friendship for more.
“No,” he responds forcefully.
“I don’t understand.”
“The pictures make it look like Amber and I are romantically involved. I didn’t want you to think we were.”
The light slowly blinks on. “You thought I’d be angry?”
“Not necessarily angry. Maybe disappointed.”
Or jealous?
How unexpected. Is jealousy even allowed between us?
He studies the built-in shelves and picks up a photo of Kelsey and I as kids. We have matching pigtails and toothless smiles. “You looked exactly alike when you were little.”
He sets the picture down on the wrong shelf.
I nod and shuffle over to move it back where it belongs. My brain is still stuck on his reason for being here. “I don’t have the right to be disappointed or angry.”
“Right.” His shoulders droop. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving New York?”
