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“Ollie. Tilly. All your new friends. The City. The random hockey encounters. I’m happy for you.”
My eyes sting once again. I’m getting tired of being so damn emotional, but I can’t help it. “I think I’m finding my place.”
“Good,” she says, squeezing my arm. “Because we love having you here.”
We slow at the corner where our paths split and hug again. I hold on for an extra second, struck by how natural this already feels. Having someone to spend a random afternoon with in a new city. Someone who walks me out and hugs me goodbye like there’s no question we’ll see each other again soon.
As I make my way home, I pass the café where Ollie insisted I try the cinnamon rolls last week, and the barista behind the counter spots me through the window and lifts a hand. A few blocks later, I cut through the park where I’ve pushed Tilly around in her stroller nearly every afternoon this week. I know which corner shop stays open late. Which bakery always has a line out the door, and which cashier at the local grocery store will ask me how Tilly’s doing.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped needing to check my phone to find back to the apartment. And when I turn onto our street and spot Ollie waiting at the other end of it, I realize I’m totally falling in love with this place.
I’m also pretty sure I’m falling in love with him, too.
27
OLLIE
By the time I turn the shower off, the hot water has done its job. My shoulders feel looser, the ache in my back has dulled to manageable and the tension I'd carried home from work has started to unravel. In its place, a restless anticipation begins to build. My mind drifts where it always does lately. To Peyton. Knowing she's somewhere in the apartment sends a familiar thrill through me.
I dry off quickly and wrap a towel low around my hips, more out of habit than modesty now that we've seen each other naked. Running a hand through my damp hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it, I push the bathroom door open and step into the hallway.
The door to the laundry room is slightly ajar and I peek inside. Peyton’s kneeling in front of the open washing machine, pulling freshly washed clothes into a basket. One of my old band T-shirts hangs loose on her frame, nearly swallowing her. Her hair is gathered into a messy knot that’s threatening to come undone.
I’ve seen her like this before—comfortable in my clothes and moving through the apartment as if she’s always had a place in it—but the sight never gets old. It’s deeply satisfying seeing traces of her life tangled up with mine. Her clothes in the wash with mine. Her things scattered among my things. Her tea next to my coffee. I could get used to a lifetime of this.
Peyton looks up first and her gaze drops from my face to the towel wrapped around my waist. I have to bite back a smile, remembering the day she arrived in Brooklyn.
Leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, I cross my arms loosely over my chest and let her take her fill for as long as she wants.
“Like what you see?” I ask, my voice husky.
A faint, familiar flush creeps into her cheeks. “I was doing laundry.”
“Right.”
“Someone has to keep you functional.”
“I was more functional before you got here.”
“And why is that?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Because I could concentrate. Now I'm constantly wondering where you are, what you're doing and how long it'll be before I can steal you away,” I explain.
Her smile grows. “So it’s all my fault?”
“Entirely.”
“Hmm.” She pretends to consider it. “I can live with that.”
“So can I.”
Peyton laughs softly, shaking her head, as she reaches for another shirt. I push away from the doorframe and step into the room. There isn't much space to begin with, and with Peyton kneeling on the floor, it only takes another step before I'm standing directly in front of her. She tilts her head back to look at me. I brush my fingers lightly along her jaw. She melts into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed.
“Long day?” she asks with a sigh.
“Yeah, but I feel a whole lot better being here with you.”
The room suddenly feels even smaller than it is. The warm scent of freshly washed cotton lingers, mixing with the clean soap clinging to my skin. Behind Peyton, the dryer clicks as it finishes its cycle. Neither of us moves. The air is charged with the sexual tension that’s been building between us for days. We've circled this moment over and over, only to be interrupted every time by life, work or one remarkably determined baby with impeccable timing. But I can't wait any longer, and judging by the hungry look in her eyes, neither can she.
