Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Suddenly, I snap back to reality, worried I’ve gone too far. “I can stay at a hotel if it’s a problem.”
His hand comes down on my shoulder. “Enough. I wouldn’t have agreed if I wasn’t cool with it.” He motions to my suitcase. “Let me show you your room.”
And that’s that. With a few words, he’s reassured me that I’m not unwelcome. I needed that. A lot.
“That’d be great,” I say, grabbing my bags. “And thanks again.”
“Happy to help,” he says, heading down the hall. Then, as he turns, he says over his shoulder, “Since I know you liked my company more than a dog’s. Evidently, that’s a high compliment from you.” He goes into the room before I can respond.
My face flushes. Heat slides down my back from all these reminders of that night together. A night that ended too soon? Maybe it did. But a repeat isn’t in the cards now that I’m staying here.
Somehow, I need to erase the memories of that night. It helps that his spare bedroom has all the personality of a hotel. Some art that the decorator must have picked out, a bed, a dresser mounted with a TV. “That’s…the bed,” he says, gesturing helpfully, as if I can’t figure out what the big piece of furniture in the middle of the room is. He swipes a hand over his face like he can’t believe he said that either. “You know, that thing you sleep on.”
“I’m familiar with beds,” I say.
“Yeah, same here,” he mutters, his eyes darkening, like maybe he’s remembering the last time we were in his bedroom. Together… Same here. He quickly heads to the door, then gestures to the en suite. “Bathroom’s that way. Feel free to spread out as much as you want.”
In a hurry, he leaves me to unpack, which I do as little as possible, feeling very much like an unwanted guest, even though he’s definitely tried to welcome me. I hear Derek moving around in the other room, opening and closing cabinets, turning on, then muting the TV.
My new temporary roommate appears in the doorway a minute later. “I was going to make something to eat. Want anything?” At least that’s familiar and easier to handle than sleeping arrangements that remind us of sex. Ballplayers’ favorite subject: food, and the preparation and consumption thereof. With that, comes the memory that I didn’t stick around last time to eat.
Even thinking about a meal, I can’t seem to escape that night in spring training.
“Food would be great,” I say then follow him into the kitchen.
He parks me on a barstool at his kitchen island, as he starts rummaging through his fridge. I expected either takeout or prepared meals, but it seems like he’s actually going to make me something.
That’s another surprise. I wasn’t expecting a cook. “Sandwiches okay?” he asks.
Like I can turn down food on top of a room. “Derek…” I have no idea what to say. Maybe I should call him Miller. “You don’t have to make me din—” I stop before I act like this is a big deal. He offered sandwiches. The most casual possible food. Like tacos. Thanks, brain.
His hands flex on the countertop. “I’m hungry. I bet you are too,” he says, glancing at the clock. It’s ten. “I have a couple kinds of bread, some turkey, probably some pastrami somewhere.”
Great. Now we’re talking about sandwich preferences. Wheat or white. Mayo or mustard. Moments ago we were chatting about dogs, the night we met, and beds. Fucking beds. Tonight is topsy turvy.
Well, what did you think shacking up with the guy you wanted a repeat with would be like?
There it is. The sharp, clear awareness of my wants. For some reason, maybe it’s chemical, maybe it’s more, I wanted a repeat.
I still do.
That’s the problem.
“Whatever is fine,” I say, past the dryness in my mouth.
“Chason—” he begins, and that feels personal, somehow, with the rumble of it in his throat. He’s interrupted by a loud pounding on the door. “Fuck. That must be Travis.”
Derek strides to the door and yanks it open to reveal Travis, who’s holding a six-pack already missing a beer.
Travis salutes me as he comes in with a “‘Sup, Chason,” then spots the open sleeve of bread, and points. “Ooh, sandwiches. Make me one.”
Derek rolls his eyes fondly, then prepares a sandwich without asking Travis his preferences. When he’s done, he turns to me, holding up bread and gesturing vaguely to the layout of condiments and meat.
“You want mayo?” he asks, as if the real question isn’t What the fuck are we all doing? I’m too shy to ask when we’re alone, and Derek’s too nonchalant. Except for the tightness to his smile that Travis doesn’t seem to notice.
I eye the pack of deli meat next to Derek—pastrami stacked neatly on a piece of waxed paper. “Pastrami with…mayo?” I try, and fail, to hide my skepticism.