Othello Station (6 page)

“Yes, you do.” She mirrors  my movement, leaning into me as she speaks over her shoulder, and much to my surprise, doesn’t pitch a fit over having my hands on her waist. “Are you hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Good. I know just the place.”

We wait for the band to play their last few songs, then swing by the merch table after the show to grab a t-shirt for Mira and an album for me. She puts up a fight over me paying for the shirt, as expected, but I pay anyway and tell her to get the hell over it.

“What is it with you and not letting people pay for things?”

She shrugs as we exit the club, leading the way. “My funds are limited. I have to be frugal. People buying me things just seems excessive. Like a luxury. I can’t afford luxuries, so why should others give them to me?”

“Um, because it’s called a gift. Because they can, and you can’t. Just enjoy it.”

“People like me don’t get gifts. Not without a price.” Her voice turns to stone, heavy like the weight on my chest. “There’s always a price.”

“No. You’re wrong.”

Visions of my father flash hot in my mind, and the anger surges, threatening to break the barrier. I reel it in. “Not everybody pays a price. Not everyone should have to.” She swings around in surprise, moving to fall in step with me. She walks at my side, watching me curiously, no doubt waiting for me to elaborate. “My father died of lung cancer at fifty-two years old. Never touched a cigarette a day in his life. He was a health nut. Organic, raw, natural everything. Running and hiking were a religion to him. Something sacred. He didn’t owe anything. Not a goddamn thing. Yet he paid a price. The universe is fucking backwards.” Mira studies me for a few more seconds before turning away, directing her gaze straight ahead. She remains quiet, staying by my side but just a step ahead, continuing to lead the way. “Sorry,” I mumble, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Sometimes I do that.”

“What, go on a tangent?” She flashes a little smile, glancing up at me.

“Yeah. Sort of.”

She snorts.

“I’m glad I amuse you.”

“Life is hard,” she says, an earnest tone overshadowing her humor. “But it’s that—just life. We can’t always take it so seriously, because most of the time, it makes no sense. We have to treat it as the crazy, unpredictable thing it is and take the good with the bad.” Her hand finds my elbow. She gives it a brief, soft squeeze. “I’m sorry about your father.”

“Yeah, well. That was a long time ago.”

“Contrary to popular belief, time does
not
heal all wounds. Lessens the sting a little, maybe.”

I exhale and run my hands over my head. I’m done with this subject. “So…food?”

“Food.” She nods and pushes past me, pointing at the sidewalk. “Follow me.” I do as she says, keeping up with her determined stride. This girl isn’t kidding. She’s starved. We round the corner and cut across Melrose Ave., stopping when we reach a shoddy pick-up window. It’s built into the brick building, a tiny closet with nothing but a stove, sink, some storage shelves and a cash register. I can’t pronounce the name of the place. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“Damn, that smells amazing, whatever it is.” I crane my head to peek over the counter. The customer in front of us is ordering like a pro. Clearly a regular. There’s one cook, and one girl working the old-school cash register. The cook piles heaps of rice into to-go boxes faster than I can blink, while the girl at the register reads back the customer’s order.

“I hope you like teriyaki.”

“This is a teriyaki joint?”

“Yup. There’s also a Malaysian menu.” Mira taps the bulletin sign to the left of the order window. It’s hanging on by a thread. I wouldn’t be surprised it the thing has been there since this place opened…which was likely a long fucking time ago. “Japanese, Malaysian, and Polynesian,” she adds, rattling off the options with her fingers. “All kinds of good stuff.”

“I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like teriyaki.”

“Nope.” She giggles and crosses her arms again, as if she’s holding herself. “No way can those people be trusted.”

“You think I’m kidding. I dated a girl once who hated teriyaki. I broke up with her the morning I found out, right outside of our geometry classroom. It never would’ve worked out.”

“So, what? You can only date people who like the same exact things as you? Your life is going to be very, very boring if you head down that path. You realize this, right?”

“I never said I can’t date people who are different than me, I just said I can’t date people I don’t trust. Like people who don’t like teriyaki.”

“You’re a piece of work, have I told you that yet?”

“A few times.”

“Well, get used to hearing it, because you really are something else. I’ve never met someone so… grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy.”

“You’re a gloomy thundercloud.”

“Are thunderclouds anything other than gloomy?”

“So you admit it – you’re grumpy.”

“No. I’m just saying, if you’re going to compare me to a thundercloud, there’s no need to state the obvious. All thunderclouds are gloomy.”

“Grant,” Mira sighs, stepping forward in line and pointing at the menu, “what do you want?”

“That’s such a loaded question.” Mira smacks my arm and points at the menu again. “Just good ‘ol chicken teriyaki,” I tell the girl at the cash register. The cook takes note and flies into action, while Mira orders next, opting for some weird Malaysian wrap and a side of spring rolls. I quickly pay before she can reach her wallet, stepping in front of her. I hear her protest from behind but ignore it, determined to win yet another round. This girl is going to have to get used to it if she keeps on hanging out with me. I cannot, in any way, shape or form, allow a woman to pay for things when she’s clearly broke. I have money. I’ve always had money. It’s just plain stupid for this girl to drop a dime on me, let alone herself when she’s in my company.

Stupid.

We carry our food over to a vacant bench and chow down, passing the spring roll tray back and forth between us. “Holy God,” I mumble with a mouthful.

“I know, right?”

“This is the best teriyaki in the fucking city.”

“Yup.”

“Apparently, I need to spend more time on the Hill.”

“You haven’t spent much time here?”

“Nah, not really. Queen Anne and Belltown were more my turf while I was in school.”

“Queen Anne is great. Belltown’s okay. I’m not really a city person, so...”

“Says the girl who lives and works in the city.”

“I won’t forever. It’s just something I wanted to try for a while. It was the right time in my life to experience it, so here I am.”

“The right time in your life?”

“Yeah, this year has been a transitional one for me. I was already going through a big change, so moving to the city just seemed natural. Go big or go home and all that, right?”

I lean over and wipe a speck of soy sauce from her cheek. She squirms away like an annoyed child, but lets me clean up the mess. I vaguely wonder about this big change she’s talking about, but I change the subject. I don’t want to think about change. I’m done thinking. “I can’t eat another bite or I’m going to throw up.” I shove the last of the spring rolls at her, forcing down my final bite.

“No desert? You disappoint me.” She stuffs the last roll in her mouth and hops up from the bench. I stand to join her, collecting our to-go boxes.

“Now what?”

“Now what?”

“Yeah. Where to?”

“Well, I’m going home. I have food to cook for the week and laundry to do.”

“At this time of night?”

She casts a bland look on me. It hits like a missile. I know that damn look well—much better than she does. I’m the master.

“Oh. Right.” I roll my eyes. “You also hang out in weird thrift shops in the middle of the night.”

“I’m a night owl.”

“Clearly.”

“Well,” she reaches out to take her to-go box, but I pull it closer to my chest. “I have news for you. You are, too. You’re not really going to hold my food hostage, are you?”

“You’re not really going to ditch me, are you?”

“Grant, you have a fancy hotel room to go back to. Don’t you have a job or something? Another album cover to design? Why did you extend your reservation, anyway?”

I shuffle backward, turning my focus across the street, where a group of twenty-somethings trot down the sidewalk, laughing as they bump shoulders. “I need to get out of the house.”

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“Why not just work at your house? Why drop all this money on a hotel ten minutes away?”

“I’m antsy. I need to switch things up.” The partial truth stings my lips. An eerie veil settles over me. The longer I’m away from my apartment, the harder it is to imagine going home. How will I go back? How will I face the scene of the crime?

My focus returns to Mira.

“Let’s go back to your place,” I say quickly.

“I don’t think so, Grant. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll help you cook and do laundry. You can put me to work.”

“Sounds boring.”

“I like boring.”

She slides me a skeptical look, still intent on talking me out of this. It’s not going to happen. Because I absolutely don’t want to go back to that hotel room. I definitely do not want to be alone. And for whatever fucking reason, which continues to evade me, I want to be near Mira. “You don’t strike me as the domestic type.”

“I can fold towels better than Martha Stewart.”

“Okay,” she finally relents. “Follow me.”

I quietly claim my little victory by moving to her side. I let her lead the way, content again—for now—that I’ve managed to postpone the inevitable.

The doorknob practically falls off as Mira jiggles the key to let us into her place. It’s a dark gold piece of crap that looks like it’s been there since the 1920s. The whole building looks that way. The crumbling architecture is pretty cool, actually. Even the cracks in the ceiling and the rickety staircase that leads into the building’s main foyer are endearing. The hallway’s white paint is peeling, and some kind of strange contraption comprised of wood and duct tape holds the light fixture in place above our heads. If someone sneezes, the whole place will come crashing down. One major earthquake and
poof
. Dead.

“Step into my lair,” Mira says mysteriously, welcoming me inside. She finds a light switch and we both stumble over a pile of magazines at the front of the doorway. “Woops, watch out. I haven’t found a home for those yet.”

I scoot to the left so I don’t trample the magazines and lift my gaze to take in the space. “I see why.” There’s barely any furniture. No bookshelves, no sofa, no TV. Only a little kitchen and a mattress that lines the wall against the windows. Little girly candles span the window sills above the mattress, and an ancient CD player is propped on the floor next to the bed, along with a stack of CDs. I think I spot a Janet Jackson album.

“I know,” Mira smiles at my reaction, “I haven’t exactly caught up with the times yet.”

“Just when I think you can’t get any weirder, you prove me wrong.”

“Hey. Did you come over to insult me, or help me with chores, huh?” She gives my shoulder a shove.

“Neither,” I mumble, as if she can’t hear me. As if she doesn’t know my intentions.

“Here.” She points to the tiny kitchen area. It’s just a counter with a stove, sink, and two little cabinets overhead. The counter is a funky mint green with rusty, retro drawer handles, jammed tightly next to the refrigerator. “Grab the veggies from the bottom of the fridge.”

I quietly obey, opening the fridge door to search for veggies. She hands me the to-go boxes to stuff inside while I’m at it, then pads over to the windows to crack them open. It’s easy to spot the vegetables. There’s nothing else in the damn fridge. “How do you survive on this?” I ask, tossing the kale and carrots on the counter. As I shut the door, I glance at her from across the room. She’s slipping out of her shoes and tying her hair up, looking out the window. Her back is to me, so I allow myself to indulge. My eyes drop over her delicate shoulders and graceful neck, then down, to the legs and ass I would give just about anything to get my hands on again.

“I eat on the run most of the time. But I cook during the week when I can. Ya know, to save money.”

“There’s nothing to cook.” I swish my wrist at the modest portions of vegetables. “What are you going to do, nibble on leaves of kale and munch on carrots like a rabbit?”

She turns around and walks toward me. I know she catches me gawking, but I don’t give a damn because now I’m onto the next thing, completely caught up in the contents—or lack thereof—of this woman’s fridge. “Hey. That will get me at least four meals over the next few days. I cook it with rice, smartass.” She
saddles
up next to me and reaches into the cabinet for a bag of brown Jasmine rice and some oil. “Start cutting the carrots, will you?”

I begin searching the drawers for a knife, and the question gnaws at me. I don’t want to, but I have to ask. “So what’s this big change you mentioned? What made you so tight on cash? Or have you always been tight? Doesn’t the hotel pay you pretty decent?”

Mira swipes the carrots to rinse them first. “Moved here from Portland and had to downsize, that’s all. Yeah, the hotel pays well but all of my paychecks have been going to debt. I’m trying to clean house, start fresh. I want to get rid of some of these burdens.”

“So, you’re paying off debt but you barely eat and struggle to pay your rent. Sounds like you’re swapping out one set of burdens for another.”

“That’s always how it goes.” She shrugs. “It’s all about priorities, though, isn’t it? For me, I’d rather live modestly and struggle with some basic bills for a while if it means being able to pay off debt and start over.”

“What are you starting over with, exactly?”

She finishes rinsing the carrots and slides them back toward me, propping them on a cutting board. “The death of a dream.”

Thick silence plumes around us. My fingers find the carrots, but my eyes don’t leave her face. “That’s some heavy shit right there. Care to elaborate?”

“Nope.” She gives me a sad smile and gestures to the carrots. “Cut. I’m gonna get started on laundry.” She pushes herself away from the counter and moves to the clothes hamper to the left of the bed, packing it tightly and shoving the lid on top. She starts to haul it across the room toward the front door, lugging it behind her while she tucks a bottle of detergent beneath her other arm, and I immediately drop the carrots.

“Stop, will you?” I walk up to her and grab the detergent, then reach for the hamper, bumping her hand away from the handle. “Where the hell are you taking this thing? It’s too damn heavy for you to be carrying like that.”

“Grant, leave my clothes alone. I clean them just fine on my own, thank you very much.”

“I’m not talking about cleaning them. I’m talking about heaving this thing out into that hallway, or wherever the hell you’re going. I’m carrying it, so get over yourself.” I yank the hamper from her grip and up off the floor, hoisting the weight on my hip. I start for the door. “Where’s the laundry room?”

Mira’s palms smack her thighs. “Seventh floor, on the left.”

“There’s no elevator in this building.”

“Nope.”

“You’re telling me you carry your laundry up four flights of stairs?”

“Yep.”

“What kind of genius puts the laundry room on the seventh floor of an apartment building?”

“Grant, if you’re going to insist on carrying that thing, then carry it and quit bitching. Otherwise, go cut carrots.”

“You know, you’re a lot friendlier when you’re working the front desk at the hotel.”

“You test my patience! I have to be nice to you at the hotel. You’re a customer.”

“But you can boss me around off property?”

“When you’re on
my
property, hijacking
my
chores, yes!”

“This conversation isn’t over,” I grumble, dragging the hamper out the door. There. I got the last word. I feel better. Marginally.

Four excruciating flights of stairs later, I’m running the washer and dumping soap in the water. I know she wants to clean them, but I’m here, she’s not, and I already feel useless, tagging along while this girl tries to get her chores done. So I start sorting lights and darks, admittedly feeling a bit creepy that I’m really enjoying going through this girl’s underwear. I can’t help it. Imagining her in this stuff is downright torture. For a chick who doesn’t seem to put a lot of stock into image and fancy, expensive clothing, she sure has some sexy fucking panties.

If she really wants to make me useful, she should let me buy her some fucking groceries. Or a bedside table. Something substantial. Like putting me to work on that bed of hers. Now there’s an obvious area I could be of some assistance. “God, I’m losing it,” I exhale, emptying the last of the laundry into the washer. I lift the hamper and trudge back down the flights of stairs, slowing at the end of the hall when I see her face light up with laughter. She’s standing in the doorway, shaking her head while the bartender I recognize from the club leans on the frame, chatting her up. His face is deadly serious, but whatever the hell he’s talking about has her cracking up.

She straightens when she spots me, and the bartender follows her line of sight. “Hey, Grant. You remember Garrett from earlier, right? Garrett, this is my friend, Grant.” She waves in my direction, and I walk toward them, extending my free hand.

“Yeah. I remember.”

Garrett accepts my shake, his gaze sliding from me to Mira. “Well, I’m off to finally eat dinner. Chow.”

“What’s on the menu tonight?” Mira asks playfully. “Cute little orphans from Somalia?”

Garrett’s response is deadpan, making Mira’s smile grow even wider. “Only their tears.” His hands find their pockets and he nods in my direction, then turns to wander down the hall to the stairwell.

“Well.” I stand there, waiting for her to move from the doorway. “He’s a ray of sunshine.”

“It’s all part of his charm. His humor is dark and twisted, but he’s really just a big teddy bear. Oh!” She jumps and reaches for the clothes hamper when her gaze lands on the empty basket. “I meant to come up with you to wash those, sorry! Garrett showed up to return an album and I got sidetracked.”

“I already threw them in the wash. You’re good.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did. You shouldn’t be lugging that damn thing up and down those stairs by yourself. It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s called life, Grant. Do you have a maid? Are you super privileged or something?” She pinches my shoulder with a smirk and steps aside to welcome me back in.

“I work for my money. Always have. So does my mom. If having nice things and having other people do my mundane chores means I’m privileged, then I guess I am. I have the money to pay for those services. I have it because I earn it. I’m not spoiled.”

“I’m not saying you are.”

“Yes, you are.”

“So, people who have less money than you don’t earn their money? You think they’re less than because they can’t afford to have others do things for them?”

“Mira, slow down.”

“You’re the one getting defensive, here.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“You’re insulting me. I do my own laundry. I cook. I wear old clothes. I don’t have much, I know that. It doesn’t make me crazy or less than. Just because you can’t understand my way of life doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with it, Grant. You don’t hear me making comments about your nice clothes and the fact that you drop money like it’s nothing on hotel rooms you don’t need and tips that could support a small army.”

“Uh…you kind of are, right now.”

“Because I’m feeling attacked.”

“Mira,” I take a cautious step toward her, wanting to touch her but afraid she might karate chop me in half. “I’m not good at this shit. But I think you’re misunderstanding me. I’m not insulting you or saying you’re less than. I just want to help. I don’t like to see you struggle. I don’t like to see any woman struggle. My mom did, for years, before she met my dad and had me. She told me stories. About how most days, she didn’t know where her next meal was coming from. I hated hearing those stories. After she had me, she went to nursing school. Said she never wanted to be in that position ever again. Especially after having me. It didn’t matter that she had my dad’s support. She knew at any moment, things could change, and she could be right back to where she started, only with a child to raise.”

“Okay,” she relaxes a little, letting me rub her shoulder, “I can understand that, I guess. But this whole you wanting to help me thing…you don’t know me, Grant.”

“We don’t have to know someone to help them. And I do know you. I’m standing in your apartment.” I take a playful step forward, bringing my other hand to her shoulder. “I’ve seen your panties. I think that makes us friends.” Her cheeks turn beet red and I revel in the power, the corner of my lips curling into a pleased grin. The sensation feels strange, so damn foreign, because unlike with colleagues or acquaintances on the street, it isn’t forced. This grin is natural, so light and easy.

“You still don’t get to pay for everything. Or wash my delicates.”

“But you’ll let me slice your carrots.” I hold her gaze and bite my lip to keep the grin from spreading. It’s trying damn hard, especially as Mira’s cheeks turn even redder.

“That’s different. Letting you help me cook is all about efficiency. It saves me time. I’m perfectly capable of slicing my own carrots.”

“Slicing your own carrots isn’t nearly as fun.” I had to go there. I just had to. She walked right into that one.

“Whatever. You win. We’re wasting time.” She suppresses a grin of her own and wiggles away from me to walk back over to the kitchen counter. I’ve experienced a lot of joy in my life. Joy in finishing a project, the high after a good workout, the overwhelming satisfaction that consumes you when you begin to harness your identity and become the person you’re meant to be. But none of it compares to the joy I’m feeling right now, knowing I’m the one responsible for making this girl squirm. It’s quite the sight.

I join her side and slide the knife in front of me. She follows the movement, her head down as she stares. Humor still dances in her eyes, but she remains quiet, watching as I reach for the first carrot. “Are you as turned on as I am right now?” I bump her shoulder and she bumps me back, shaking her head. Her smile is blinding, and right then, all I really want to do is fucking kiss her. I want to grab her face and steal the breath straight from her lungs. I want to own that shit. I want it all.

Instead, I slice the stupid carrot.

She cranes her head to watch my handiwork, checking my progress like a professional chef observing a new student. “Not so thick,” she says, twirling a finger in front of the cutting board.