He led me to his workstation, an expansive desk with two large mounted monitors and a smaller screen that he explained was actually a graphic tablet. He showed me these with the giddiness of a child at show-and-tell, describing not just the items but where he found them, when, his decisions to arrange them as he had.
“It’s a nice place,” I said when he was done. Ricky had done well for himself. “That is,” I added with a sneer, “for a starving artist.”
“Asshole,” he said without bite. He shoved his hands into his pajama pockets. “But thanks. So? Want anything to drink?”
I shook my head and he tsk-ed, bringing me a glass of water anyway before whisking away to what I now knew was his bedroom. I crumpled onto his sofa, taking delicate sips as I listened to his footsteps patter against his wood floors. To my surprise, I found myself next to a mound of blankets, so high they almost peeked over the top of the couch. They looked so incongruous next to his carefully folded dish towels, and there were so many of them.
“How many of these do you need, Ricky?” I said, lifting layer after layer of blanket only to reveal more underneath. Some were clearly store bought, but a few were knit, and judging by the color schemes of iconic anime characters,* by hand.
Unceremoniously, Ricky returned from behind me and dumped an armful of sheets onto the couch.
“All of them,” he said. “We’re building a fort.”
In spite of myself, I let out a bark of laughter.
“A blanket fort?” I asked giddily. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made a blanket fort, and when I told Ricky as much, his grin only grew wider.
“Oh, then this is definitely a good idea,” he said. “Hold on,” he added before disappearing into his bedroom again and reemerging with a stack of pillows. “I know you’re a guest, but I’m putting you to work. Help me move these chairs?”
I followed him to his dining table, noting its unique dimensions and its welded steel base.
“Your grandpa make this?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Ricky responded, beaming. “The chairs too. It was my present for getting my own place.” He ran his thumb against the table edge. “Completely caught me by surprise, because my grandparents were pissed when I told them I was moving out.”
“Why were they upset?” I asked, thinking of Nia and her box of kitchen utensils, the hollow look she’d given me as she placed it on our dining room table.
“I mean, this place is only a fifteen-minute drive away from them, and it’s not that much more convenient for work,” he said. “They were hoping I’d stay in their home until I got married.”
I hoisted one of the chairs up. Unbidden, the image of Ricky, dressed smartly in a black tux and standing, beaming, at an altar, came to mind, and I shook it off.
“So why didn’t you?” I asked. “Stay, I mean. You probably would’ve saved a ton on rent.”
Ricky snorted and followed me into the living area, dropping off his chair before crossing the room for another.
“For one, my dad was always there, and he’s annoying as shit,” he said. Then he gave me a strange look, sucking in his lower lip. “And then, well, you know. Camila.”
My stomach turned. I didn’t know much about Camila and Ricky’s relationship, just that they’d met in college and, like me, were three years out. Had she lived here, in this apartment? Had he . . . started a home with her? I found my eyes darting around the room, searching for any vestiges of Camila’s touch, and finding only Ricky.
“Of course,” I said, attempting to sound casual even while my skin crawled. “Your grandma’s a virtuous Catholic woman. Couldn’t be fornicating openly under her roof, right?”
Ricky let out a bark of laughter. He arranged the chairs into a rectangle, gently guiding me out of his way to make sure that mine were adequately lined up with the couch.
“I think she would’ve pretended not to know, if it kept me home,” he admitted. “Okay, so now we have to make the ground.”
With professional precision, Ricky lay down layer after layer of blankets, instructing me to line them up to create an even “floor” for our fort. When that was done, he gathered pillows for seating, running back to his bedroom to collect another when one of his chosen pillows proved too flat for his liking.
“You’re clearly an expert at this,” I joked, watching him search his bookshelf for books heavy enough to hold up the fort canopy.