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“That’s the part when your hands go in your pockets.”
“Yes, so I don’t accidentally throttle someone.”
“And you’re worried about Flick strangling you in your sleep.”
“She’s smart enough to know that’s the only way she’s going to get a jump on me.” Again.
“Roommates made in heaven.” Wren rubbed the back of her neck. “I can’t think straight anymore. I could make the mistake of buying fugly shoes if I go shopping now. I’m going home to wander around aimlessly until I can sleep the entire weekend.”
Different plan, same intention. Instead of the aimless wandering, Tom was going to cook fried chicken and open a bottle of wine, crash in his bunk before midnight and spend Saturday hiking. In other words, not think about Alzheimer’s drugs or political maneuvering for the whole weekend.
“So go.” He had a few things to finish up.
“I’m t
oo tired to move.”
She did eventually, because watching him edit a report and answer a dozen emails was enough to put anyone to sleep.
He shut down and left the office about the same time as everyone else was leaving, but that still put him about four hours ahead of his regular departure time for this week. A quick trip to the market, where it took too long to find what he needed, and he was home by six and had started preparing the chicken.
There was no sign of Flick, her bedroom door slightly ajar.
He changed into sweats and a long-sleeved Henley, pushed the sleeves up and opened a bottle of wine. He hit play on his Eclectic Classics Spotify list and got the opening guitar riff to Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition.” Made him want to go fling open the door to Flick’s room to check if she had really moved in and to see if she lived like the fairground before the cleanup crew arrived.
He was about to plate up when the door burst open and banged closed. He stared at Flick. She stared at him. The song changed over.
“Hi,” she said. She wore sneakers with a severe black suit, much like the ones Wren wore. Fitted skirt, tailored jacket. She pulled a gaudy red-and-purple scarf from around her neck, nothing like Wren would wear, and scrunched it in her hand.
Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” started up. There was a line about trading heroes for ghosts in that song.
“Hi.” He followed that up with the blazingly obvious “You’re home.”
“You’re home. I’m just passing through.” She looked off toward her room and then back. “I smell fried chicken. You made fried chicken.”
He’d made enough to eat now and to pack for lunch on the trail tomorrow. “I like to cook. It relaxes me.”
“It smells amazing.”
No denying that, or the expression on Flick’s face. Hunger.
She flapped her scarf at him. “This is weird. And we can’t be weird. I resigned on Monday and things got tricky. I got a counteroffer and it was good. Flattering, but this job I’m going to is everything to me. But that’s why I’ve been, well, not here.” She flapped the scarf again and laughed. “Oh, your face. Don’t have a coronary, I’m still going to Washington, but I want to leave without scorching the earth behind me, so it was a difficult week.”
Whatever he’d done with his face, he masked it by glancing down at the countertop.
“What I’m saying is I’ll keep out of your hair while I’m here, but it can’t be as weird as it was this week. We’ll have to see each other occasionally. Talk, even.”
“Right.” Getting to know his temporary roommate was probably a safety feature.
“I’ll get out of your way.” She didn’t move.
“That’s not what you wanted to say.”
“No. I wanted to say I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“You wanted to be pathetic so I’d feed you.”
She shifted her weight onto one foot, brought her shoulders forward and hung her head, her scarf slithering to the floor. Picture of a sad, overworked executive ready to collapse from starvation. She looked over at him from under the exaggerated flutter of her lashes. “Will it work?”
