You, Again(83)

And now he’s fucking smiling, despite himself. Maybe it’ll be okay. An intermission, of sorts. Give her time to adjust.

It’s fine.

It’ll be fine.





22


Thurs, Jan 26, 4:53 p.m.

Brad Hoenig [SFW  ]: Ari! Thanks for jumping on another call at the last minute.

Being able to roll with the punches is mission critical at WinProv.

Just to confirm, you have a valid driver’s license, correct?





* * *



—

“YOU WEREN’T EXAGGERATING ABOUT YOUR distaste for pants.” Josh stands at Ari’s door, holding a cardboard box and two grocery bags.

Ari is wearing a pair of boxers and a tank top because the thermostat in this apartment has always been something out of her control. But it creates an odd dynamic when someone shows up appropriately bundled for January and the other is dressed for a sweltering July.

Particularly when the someone is Josh, who she hasn’t seen, spoken to, or texted in the past week. That he’s extremely dressed only makes Ari feel extremely not-dressed.

“What’s in the box?” She crosses her arms over the Lilith Fair logo on the front of the tank top, hiding the outline of the piercings that poke through her unlined bralette like, “hey, remember us?”

“I’m making you dinner. A real dinner.”

“You’re going to cook? Here?” She peers over the cardboard flap of the box and sees something shiny and metallic. “Really?”

“Really.” He walks back into the kitchen, brushing past Ari, leaving her staring at the door.

When she turns around, he’s swinging the strap of a duffel bag off his shoulder. It could be a gym bag, sure. Or his potential-sex bag. With outfit changes.

How had she failed to see this coming when she texted him and asked if he wanted to come over and talk?

They’re wandering around a no-man’s-land between buddies and lovers without a rulebook. Maybe the Tall Sweater Nightmare Man version of Josh was right: There really is no such thing as consequence-less sex.

She walks cautiously toward the kitchen, watching the explicit competency porn of Josh separating the produce into neat groups and lining up his knives next to his cutting board.

“You stole salt and pepper shakers from a diner?” He holds up the two mostly empty little glass bottles that had been sitting next to her stove. “I’m buying you some decent kosher salt. This is unacceptable.”

“The food I eat doesn’t usually need more sodium,” she mutters, brushing some stray crumbs off the counter before he can comment on them. “Hey, so there’s something I need to talk to you…”

She trails off because Josh pulls his sweater over his head and there’s a slice of pale skin between his waistband and T-shirt. For a second, she has this ridiculous thought that he’s just…casually undressing because that’s how things are between them now. Like he’s going to continue removing layers of dark clothing until—

“It’s so fucking hot in here,” he says, folding the sweater—of course he folds it—and placing it on top of his duffel.

He methodically opens each empty overhead cabinet. Why are his shirts always straining slightly? Of course Ari’s dirty Josh thoughts leach up to the surface now, at a time when she needs to be rational. “Where are the mixing bowls we bought?”

“Uh…lower left.” Ari watches him take over her kitchen, fussing over various stainless-steel gadgets. “What are you making?”

“Lasagne in bianco,” he replies, like this is a normal thing. “Is it possible that you own a baking dish?”

She crouches down to the lower right cabinet and holds up a rectangular Pyrex dish. “I use it for pot brownies.”

He gives her a slightly titillating look of disapproval before taking it out of her hands. “Is that another one of Cass’s shirts?”

Ari shrugs, looking for a conversational pivot. “You brought your pasta machine?” She turns the little handle.

“My dad’s. This is elevated comfort food.”

Ari leans her lower back against the countertop, trying to find a position that seems casual before she tells him why she will not need kosher salt or these mixing bowls in a few weeks. Instead, what comes out is: “You think I need comforting?”

She’s way off her script now. He wasn’t supposed to come over here and boil water, let alone make pasta from scratch.

Josh picks up his grater and walks toward her—only one step, because he’s a big man in a New York kitchen.

“Do you?” He looms over her, leaving just a couple inches of space between them. There’s a dish towel over his shoulder. He’s not playing fair.

“Do I what?” The black cotton of his shirt just barely brushes against the thin barrier of the faded Lilith Fair logo.

“Need. Comforting.” His eyes move up and down her face, like he’s maybe going to lean in.

Ari holds her breath, tilting her chin up very slightly. He lifts his right arm and—

—reaches for half a pound of fontina cheese.

“Make yourself useful and shred this.”

She exhales. “Sure, give me the dangerous job.” He opens the package of flour and searches the drawers for measuring cups, as if she might actually own some.