I dont want him to see my disappointment, so I turn back toward the sink. I use the sprayer to wash the remaining suds down the drain. I find it quite fitting, considering the weird vibes floating around his kitchen. How long have you lived here? I ask, attempting to alleviate the awkward silence as I turn and face him again.
Four years.
I dont know why I laugh, but I do. He raises an eyebrow, confused about why his answer caused me to laugh.
Its just that your apartment … I glance toward the living room, then back to him. Its kind of bland. I thought maybe you just moved in and havent had a chance to decorate.
I didnt mean for that to come out like an insult, but thats exactly how it sounded. Im just trying to make conversation, but I think Im only making this awkwardness worse.
His eyes move slowly around his apartment as he processes my comment. I wish I could take it back, but I dont even try. Id probably just make it worse.
I work a lot, he says. I never have company, so I guess it just hasnt been a priority.
I want to ask him why he never has company, but certain questions seem off limits to him. Speaking of company, whats up with Dillon?
Miles shrugs his shoulders, leaning his back completely against the refrigerator. Dillons an ass**le who has no respect for his wife, he says flatly. He turns around completely and walks out of the kitchen, heading toward his bedroom. He pushes his bedroom door closed but leaves it open just enough so that I can still hear him speak. Thought Id warn you before you fell for his act.
I dont fall for acts, I say. Especially acts like Dillons.
Good, he says.
Good? Ha. Miles doesnt want me to like Dillon. I love that Miles doesnt want me to like Dillon.
Corbin wouldnt like it if you started something up with him. He hates Dillon.
Oh. He doesnt want me to like Dillon for Corbins sake. Why did that just disappoint me?
He walks back out of his bedroom, and hes no longer in his jeans and T-shirt. Hes in a familiar pair of slacks and a crisp, white shirt, unbuttoned and open.
Hes putting on a pilots uniform.
Youre a pilot? I ask, somewhat perplexed. My voice makes me sound oddly impressed.
He nods and walks into the laundry room adjacent to the kitchen. Thats how I know Corbin, he says. We were in flight school together. He walks back into his kitchen with a laundry basket and sets it on the counter. Hes a good guy.
His shirt isnt buttoned.
Im staring at his stomach.
Stop staring at his stomach.
Oh my word, he has the V.Those beautiful indentations on men that run the length of their outer abdominal muscles, disappearing beneath their jeans as if the indentations are pointing to a secret bulls-eye.
Jesus Christ, Tate, youre staring at his damn crotch!
Hes buttoning his shirt now, so I somehow gain superhuman strength and force my eyes to look back up at his face.
Thoughts. I should have some of those, but I cant find them. Maybe its because I just found out hes an airline pilot.
But why would that impress me?
It doesnt impress me that Dillons a pilot. But then again, I didnt find out Dillon was a pilot while he was doing laundry and flaunting his abs. A guy folding laundry while flaunting his abs and being a pilot is seriously impressive.
Miles is fully dressed now. Hes putting on his shoes, and Im watching him like Im in a theater and hes the main attraction.
Is that safe? I ask, finding a coherent thought somehow. Youve been drinking with the guys, and now youre about to be at the controls of a commercial jet?
Miles zips his jacket, then picks up an already packed duffel bag from the floor. Ive only had water tonight, he says, right before exiting the kitchen. Im not much of a drinker. And I definitely dont drink on work nights.
I laugh and follow him toward the living room. I walk to the table to grab my things. I think youre forgetting how we met, I say. Move-in day? Someone-passed-out-drunk-in-the-hallway day?
He opens the front door to let me out. I have no idea what youre talking about, Tate, he says. We met on an elevator. Remember?
I cant tell if hes kidding, because theres no smile or gleam in his eyes.
He closes the door behind us. I hand him back his apartment key, and he locks his door. I walk to mine and open it.
Tate?
I almost pretend I dont hear him just so hell have to say my name again. Instead, I turn around and face him, pretending to be completely unaffected by this man.
That night you found me in the hallway? That was an exception. A very rare exception.
Theres something unspoken in his eyes and maybe even in his voice.
He stands paused at his front door, poised to walk toward the elevators. Hes waiting to see if I have anything to say in response. I should tell him goodbye. Maybe I should tell him to have a safe flight. That could be considered bad luck, though. I should just say good night.
Was the exception because of what happened with Rachel?
Yes. I really just chose to say that instead.
WHY did I just say that?
His posture changes. His expression freezes, as if my words jolted him with a bolt of lightning. Hes more than likely confused that I said that, because he obviously doesnt remember anything about that night.
Quick, Tate. Recover.
You thought I was someone named Rachel, I blurt out, explaining away the awkwardness as best I can. I just thought maybe something happened between the two of you and thats why … you know.
Miles inhales a deep breath, but he tries to hide it. I hit a nerve.
We dont talk about Rachel, apparently.
Good night, Tate, he says, turning away.