I’m a little shell-shocked that he called a meeting to officially Sausage Reference™ me, so I follow him without questions. The upstairs area is just as pretty as the first floor, but with more personality. I spot a vinyl player and CDs, pictures on the walls, even some Pitt swag I recognize from my own apartment. His bedroom, though . . . his bedroom is magic. Something out of a catalog. It’s a corner room with two large windows, wooden furniture, ceilinghigh bookshelves, and, in the middle of the king-sized bed, sleeping softly on top of the comforter . . .
“Are you allergic to cats?” he asks, rummaging through a drawer.
I shake my head, then remember that he’s not looking at me. “No.”
“Schrödinger’s probably going to leave you alone, anyway. He’s old and grumpy.”
Schrödinger! “I thought you hated cats.”
He turns with a confused look. “Why?”
“I don’t know. You seemed a bit hostile toward my cat today.”
“You mean, your cat that doesn’t exist?”
“Félicette exists! I have literally wiped boogers from her eyes, so—”
“Félicette?”
I press my lips together. “It’s the name of the first cat in space.”
He lifts one eyebrow. “And you named your imaginary cat after her. I see.”
I roll my eyes and drop the topic. There’s nothing I want more than to pet the black ball of fur curled on the bed, but Levi’s holding out a white V-neck T-shirt and . . .
“How offended would you be if I offered you boxers a friend gave me as a joke? They’re very small, I don’t think
I’ve ever worn them.”
“Is that . . . flamingoes?”
His cheeks redden. “The size isn’t the only reason I never wear them.
Also, you might want this.” It’s a tube of itch-relief cream.
“Thanks. How did you know?”
He shrugs, still a little flushed. “You’ve been scratching your legs a lot.”
“Yeah, bugs love me.” I roll my eyes. “My ex used to say that he only kept me around as a decoy for mosquitos.” Looking back to Tim’s behaviors, it probably wasn’t even a joke.
Ten minutes later I make my way downstairs, hair wet and pine scented, reflecting that out of all the implausible roller coasters of events that have befallen me in the past weeks, the weirdest is knowing that Levi and I use the same deodorant. What can I say? Men’s products are cheaper, smell better, and block my BO more effectively. Not sure how I feel about the fact that Levi’s armpits and mine have similar needs, but I’m going to let that slide.
The kitchen, which is cozy and surprisingly wellequipped, smells like the most delicious meal I’ve never had. Levi works at the stove, his back to me, and I’m reasonably sure that he’s wearing the same shirt I have on in a different color. Except that it fits him perfectly. On me it looks like a circus tent.
“Food will be . . .” he starts, and then stops when he turns around and sees me in the room.
I grab two fistfuls of my shirt and pretend to curtsy. “Thank you for this gown, my good sir.”
“You’re . . .” He sounds hoarse. “You’re welcome. Food will be ready in five minutes.”
I wince as he turns back to the pans and pots. There’s no way he cooked without meat and dairy. God, why is he being so damn nice? “Thank you, but . . .” I pad to the stove. He’s making tacos. Ugh. I love tacos. “You didn’t have to.”
“I was going to make myself dinner anyway.”
“It’s really kind of you to offer, but I doubt I can eat . . .” I stop when my eyes fall to the filling. It’s not meat, but portobello mushrooms. Beside a jar of dairy-free sour cream, and a bag of shredded plant-based cheddar.
My eyes narrow. On impulse, I push on my toes and open the cabinet closest to me. I find quinoa, agar powder, and maple syrup. In the next one there are nuts, seeds, a package of dates. I scowl harder and move to the fridge, which looks like a richer, better version of mine. Almond milk, tofu, fruits and vegetables, coconut-based yogurts, miso paste. Oh my God.
Oh. My. God.
“He’s a vegan,” I mutter to myself. “He is.”
I look up. Levi is staring at me with a puzzled, patient expression, and I have no idea how to tell him that this is, like, the tenth thing we have in common. Sci-fi and cats and science and obviously men’s deodorants and who knows what else. It’s so incredibly upsetting to me, I can’t even imagine how much he’d hate it if he knew. I toy with the idea of telling him, but he doesn’t deserve it. He’s been very nice today. Instead I just clear my throat.
“Um, me too.”
“I figured. When you . . . scolded me. About the donut.”
“Oh, God. I’d forgotten about that.” I bury my face in my hands. “I’m sorry. So sorry. Believe it or not, I’m usually not a deranged asshole who scares her colleagues away from plant-based products.”
“It’s fine.”
I massage my temple. “In my defense, you drive the least environmentally friendly vehicle.”
“It’s a Ford F-150. Pretty friendly, actually.”
“Is it?” I wince. “Well, in another defense of mine, weren’t you a hunter back in grad school?”
