“You’ve gone up one flight of stairs,” I point out.
“After I ran here,” he says.
“Youran?”
“Car’s in the shop. I’d just missed a bus. It was only half a mile. Running was by far the fastest.”
Something warm stirs in my chest. Heranto me.
“Running with a book bag,” I tell him, “sounds unpleasant.”
“Nah,” he says. “You know how many mornings I ran to school with a thirty-pound book bag on my back to make it on time, because my uncle beat my ass whenever I was late?”
“Youruncle?”
“School principal,” he explains, like this is an actual explanation.
I frown. “That seems like a very good reason heshouldn’thave been beating your ass.”
Alex shrugs. “Point is, I’m a running-with-backpack pro.”
“This is me.” I slide off his back and jimmy my key in the lock until it finally gives. “Welcome,” I tell him, as I open the door, “to my shoebox.”
Alex takes in my apartment, shutting the door behind him. He shrugs off his backpack, steps out of the same beat-up Nikes he was wearing when I met him. For the first time since he got here, I notice what he’s wearing. Black sweatpants with what looks like a burn hole in the upper thigh. A Pitt T-shirt that’s the same blue ashis eyes, so threadbare in places, I can see a hint of his skin. House clothes, my mom would call them—the stuff you change into after a long day, when you’re in for the night.
Maybe Alex goes out dressed like this, but I don’t think that’s the case. Even on the day I met him, when he was clearly having a tough time, his white T-shirt was thick cotton, bright, with no stains. His basketball shorts looked new, no holes in sight.
Which makes me think that these are his house clothes, that he was settled in for the night. Until I texted him. And then he ran here.
The warmth that spilled through me creeps up my cheeks. I turn away and, as I encounter a stark reminder of the state of my apartment, flush for a different reason—profound embarrassment.
“Please ignore the wine bottles,” I tell him. “And the used tissues.” I pluck up the empty bottles littering my kitchen counter, the wadded tufts of Kleenex scattered across the floor like dandelion fluff. “I was going to clean up, but you got here a lot faster than I thought you would.”
I chuck the wine bottles in the recycling bin and do a very unclassy step into my trash can to smoosh down the mountain of tissues I just dumped into it.
Alex still hasn’t said anything.
He stands with his back to me, facing my bookshelves, his head tipped slightly. When I walk up to him, I see he’s smiling.
I glance between my bookshelves and him. “What is it?”
“That’s an impressive wall of bookshelves.”
“You think?” I move so that I’m standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
“Very impressive,” he says. “Organized by genre.Alphabetizedwithin genre.” As his gaze travels the bookshelves, his smiledeepens. “If I was a betting man, I would have made a lot of money tonight.”
“Meaning?”
He peers over at me. “Meaning, I would have gone all in on this being exactly what your place looked like. A few pieces of unassuming, practical furniture; wall-to-wall shelves with a library’s worth of books.”
“Well,” I say. “Good to know I’m so predictable.”
“Nah.” He nudges my shoulder with his. “Not predictable. Relatable.” He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “When I moved into my new place, the first thing I did was set up my kitchen. I slept on a mattress on the floor the first night I stayed there because I hadn’t put my bedframe together, but my kitchen looked like I’d lived there for years.
“The way you talk about how much you love books, how much they matter to you—you talk about them the way I feel about cooking. It makes sense, that this is what you’d prioritize, what would make you feel most at home.” He shrugs. “Your books.”
My heart’s pounding as I look at him. I am an emotional disaster. Grieving my friend’s impending move. Recognizing I need to put on my big-girl panties and face my postdivorce life head-on all on my own. And there’s a very beautiful man standing in my apartment who appreciates my alphabetized, organized by genre, thousand-plus book collection, talking to me like he gets it. Like he getsme.