The memory of an Instagram post I saw earlier this week suddenly pops into my mind. It was from The Good Factory saying that one of their incredible spaces is going to become available next month, and they are currently taking applications. I’ve dreamed of securing a place in The Good Factory ever since I learned about it a few years ago. It’s a giant old renovated—you guessed it—factory that was endowed in some rich benefactor’s will with the specific purpose of offering free rental spaces for non-profit organizations. The only overhead costs organizations are required to cover are for any adjustments they need to make to the space （which for me would be adding mirrors and a ballet barre）。 There are only fifteen gigantic spaces available for use in the factory and they are ALWAYS occupied, because, duh, who wouldn’t want to be in there?
Each space is lined with gorgeous windows, hardwood floors, and expansive exposed brick walls. I bet there’s not a hint of a yeast scent anywhere in that building. I want to apply, because with the free rent, I would officially be able to convert my studio to a non-profit and lower tuition prices to nearly free. But even as I think of applying, I roll my eyes. There’s no way I’d get selected among the hundreds of other applicants. I’ve learned by now not to count too much on something in the future that’s completely out of my hands. Best to make do with the resources I have available to me now.
I watch Hannah walk to her car and wait until she’s safely inside to go to my own. I toss my bag on the opposite seat that’s already piled high with sweaters and water bottles then check my phone. I’m not surprised to see a new voicemail from Nathan because we have become very good at a voicemail-and-text friendship. We tend to call and leave meaningless voicemails for no reason. Like cell phone pen pals.
“Hey, is it true that some caterpillars are poisonous? Somehow one made its way into my truck and then disappeared when I looked away. Now I’m wondering if I should buy a new vehicle and just give him this one? What do you think?”
I immediately call him back and leave a message when he doesn’t answer. “I haven’t had time to Google it yet, but better safe than sorry. Can you get a flashy sports car this time? Also, I’m really craving a cherry slushie. Does that mean I have a vitamin deficiency? That’s all. K, bye.”
After I hang up, I peruse the internet, trying to find that photo the girls were staring at before class.
I hear a loud knock on my apartment door followed by Nathan’s voice. “Bree! You here?”
“Be out in a second!” I yell from my bathroom where I’ve just finished applying my face mask.
It’s only 5:30 PM. He’s a little early to pick me up for Jamal’s party, and I’m still in my strappy black leotard with my herringbone textured leggings overtop, but more importantly, bright green goo is currently hardening on my skin. I should probably worry about what Nathan will think of me in this thing, but honestly, he’s seen me in worse. And this is one of the perks of never anticipating a relationship with your best friend—you can look like dump and still hang out!
Welcome to the bright side, friends!
I leave the bathroom and head toward the kitchen where I see Nathan rummaging through my fridge. He’s bent over when I walk in, and my stomach does a flip at the sight.
“Apples are in the bottom drawer,” I say, forcing my gaze away from his derriere, because, umm hello, friends don’t ogle friends’ butts. Even when those butts look amazing in a pair of tight, grey chino pants.
“Ah—thank you.” He stands up and shuts the fridge with his spoils in hand. When he turns to face me, the apple is already between his teeth and he freezes mid-crispy-bite. His eyes widen and his smile grows on either side of the red forbidden fruit.
“What?” I ask, leaning back against the counter like everything is perfectly normal. “Do I have something on my face?”
He lets out a guttural laugh, and the sound is so him it stirs me in ways a woman with her face painted like a frog shouldn’t be feeling. In fact, I shouldn’t be thinking sexy thoughts toward Nathan ever, but it’s just…it’s DIFFICULT, okay? I’m a woman with very opinionated ovaries, and let me tell you, they’re real hussies. Currently, as Nathan rips the bite off that apple and tilts his head at me with a playful smile, they are down there waxing poetic about how his soft, white tee fits him so well it looks like a deity plucked him up by his feet and dipped him headfirst into a sensual cotton pond. In conclusion, I am deceased at the sight of him.