“Home.”
“Whose home?”
“My home.”
My jaw drops. I must have misheard. “What?”
“You need a place to stay, no?”
“Yeah, but—Rocío’s couch. Or I’ll call a locksmith. I can’t come to your house.” “Why?”
“Because,” I say, sounding like a shrill twelve-year-old. Why is he being so nice all of a sudden? Does he feel guilty for not telling me about the NASA mess? Well, he should. But I’d rather sleep under a bridge and eat plankton than go to his place and see his perfect family life. Nothing personal, but the envy would gut me. And I can’t meet his wife smelling like dirty socks and graveyard. Who knows what Levi already told her about me? “You probably have plans for the evening.”
“I don’t.”
“And I’d put you out.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Plus, you hate me.”
He briefly closes his eyes in exasperation, which worries me. He’s driving, after all. “Is there any nonimaginary reason you don’t want to stay at my place, Bee?” he asks with a sigh.
“I . . . It’s very nice of you to offer, but I don’t feel comfortable.”
That gets through to him. His hands tighten on the wheel and he says calmly, “If you don’t feel safe around me, I absolutely respect that. I’ll drive you back to your place. But I’m not going to leave until I’m sure that you have a secure place to—”
“What? No. I feel safe around you.” As I say it, I realize how true it is, and how rare for me. There’s often a constant undercurrent of threat when I’m alone with men I don’t know very well. The other night Guy came by my office to chat, and even though he’s never been anything but nice, I couldn’t stop glancing at the door. But Levi’s different, which is odd, especially considering that our interactions have always been antagonistic. And especially considering that he’s built like a Victorian mansion. “It’s not that.”
“Then . . . ?”
I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the headrest. There’s no way I’m going to be able to avoid this, is there? Might as well lean in to the clusterfuck.
“Then, thank you,” I say, trying not to sound as dejected as I feel. “I’d love to stay with you tonight, if it’s not too much trouble.”
• • •
THE SECOND I see Levi’s house I want to burn it down with a flamethrower.
Because it’s perfect.
To be fair, it’s a totally normal house. But it perfectly matches my ideal, which, to be fair again, is not particularly lofty. My lifelong dream is a pretty
brick home in the suburbs, a family with two point five children, and a yard to grow butterfly-friendly plants. I’m pretty sure a psychoanalyst would say that it has to do with the nomadic lifestyle of my formative years. I’m a stability slut, what can I say?
Of course, when I say “lifelong dream” I mean until a couple of years ago.
Once I realized how life-alteringly cruel humans can be, I scrapped the family part from the dream. The house lingers, though, at least according to the pang in my heart when Levi pulls up the driveway. First thing I notice: he grows hummingbird mint in his garden— nature’s hummingbird feeder, and my favorite plant. Grrr. Second: there are no cars in the driveway. Weird.
But some lights inside are on, so maybe his wife’s is just in the garage. Yeah, that’s probably it.
I jump out of the truck—which is unjustly tall—with already-sore muscles and already-itchy legs. “Are you sure this is okay?”
He gives me a silent look that seems to mean Haven’t we been over this seven times already? and leads me up his driveway, where we’re surrounded by a delightful amount of fireflies. I’m explosively jealous of this place. And I’m about to meet Levi’s significant other, who probably has a nickname for me, her husband’s ugly former lab mate.
Something like FrankenBee. Or Beezilla. Wait, those nicknames are actually pretty cute. I hope for their sake that they came up with something meaner.
The inside of the house is silent, and I wonder if the family is already asleep. “Should I be quiet?” I whisper.
He gives me a puzzled look. “If you want,” he says at regular volume.
Maybe the walls are soundproof?
Either Levi is a very strict dad, or he and his wife are pros at picking up after their kid. The house is immaculate and sparsely furnished, no toys or clutter in sight. There are some engineering journals, a handful of sci-fi posters on the walls, and an open Asimov book on the coffee table— one of my favorite authors. How is this man I hate surrounded by everything I love?
It’s the ultimate mindfuck.
“There are three unused bedrooms upstairs. You can pick the one you like best.” Three unused bedrooms? How big is this house? “One’s technically my office, but the couch pulls out. Do you want to shower?”
“Shower?”
“I didn’t mean to—” He looks flustered. “If you want to. Because you ran.
You don’t have to. I don’t mean to imply that—”
“That I smell like the sweaty crotch of a trout?”
“Uh . . .”
