But I like it. I really, really like it. I liked waking up next to her this morning. I liked that she snuggled into me for a few minutes before we got up. I liked the sound of her going down the stairs, turning on the kettle, yawning in the kitchen.
“You doing anything today?” I ask as she scoops seeds into the trash.
“Depends on the roads,” she says. “You don’t have a compost bin or something?”
“I live in a townhouse.”
“It’s got a back yard.”
It’s true. My townhouse has a perfectly nice, postage-stamp-sized back yard, complete with a deck and a few small trees. That said, I haven’t spent a moment of my life gardening since I moved out of my mom’s house.
“I think the roads are clearing up,” I say, poking at the bacon with the tongs.
She looks over her shoulder, through the kitchen window, the light catching her right across the cheekbone.
“I might work on the storage unit,” she says. “It’s pretty close to finished, and at this point I just want to get it done, you know?”
She puts the two halves of the cantaloupe on the cutting board. I grab paper towels, stack a few on a plate, take the dripping bacon out of the pan.
“Come to my mom’s for dinner tonight,” I say.
“Tonight?” she echoes, looking up at me in surprise.
“Yeah,” I say, and drape more bacon onto the pan. “It’s our usual Sunday thing, everyone will be there. You haven’t come yet. You should.”
“It’s not — ow! Shit.”
Her knife clatters to the countertop. I look up in alarm.
“You okay?”
“You have sharp knives,” she says, voice muffled by the thumb in her mouth. “Shit, that hurt.”
I’ve already put the bacon down, and I’m scrubbing my hands of raw meat, drying them, grabbing her a paper towel.
“Here,” I say. “Can I see?”
Delilah makes a face, then holds it up to me. Instantly, blood wells from the slice right across the pad of her thumb. I press the paper towel to her thumb, and she takes it from me, holding it tight.
“So, besides alphabetizing your silverware, I guess you sharpen your knives regularly?” she says, still making a face.
“Eli was over on Wednesday to talk about numbers and next steps for the brewpub,” I tell her, picking up the knife and moving it away. “Number stress him out sometimes, so he sharpened all my knives while we talked.”
“Ah,” she says. “Well, give him my compliments, I guess? Is that burning?”
I turn again, and the bacon is definitely smoking.
“Shit,” I say, and grab the tongs.
“You deal with that, I’m gonna go get a band aid,” Delilah says. “Bathroom?”
“Under the sink,” I say, flipping the bacon and making a face. Half-burnt and half-raw is the worst kind of bacon. “Give me a sec, I’ll come —"
“I stab people for a living, I can put a bandaid on my finger,” she calls, her voice already echoing from the bathroom.
I hear the sounds of the cabinet opening, of things being pulled out.
And then: “Oh!” followed by silence.
A long silence. No sounds of cardboard boxes opening or bandaids being unwrapped. Just silence.
I frown and turn the burner off.
“You okay?” I ask, wiping my hands on a dish towel, walking for the bathroom.
When I turn the corner I can see her head over the top of the cabinet door and she looks at me, surprised.
“Oh! Yes, fine, I just found them,” she says, quickly, grabbing something off the floor. She clears her throat and opens the band aid box. “I like the rainbows.”
On the floor in front of her is the plastic shoebox where I keep my minor injury supplies: bandaids, gauze, Neosporin, hydrogen peroxide.
Next to it is a small pink zippered bag, a hairbrush, and a pair of black lace panties.
My heart falls clear through my chest.
“Oh, they’re also unicorns,” she says, examining the bandaid as though it holds the secret to eternal life, her voice slightly strained. “Rainbow unicorns! Great.”
“Sorry,” I say, bend down, and grab those three things in one quick swipe and, without stopping, carry them to the trash can in the kitchen and throw them in.
Fuck. Fuck. I’d forgotten that those were in there, because apparently I haven’t needed a bandaid in a couple of years.
Women used to leave things at my house sometimes, and I’d keep them until I could give them back or until I was sure I wasn’t going to see that person again.
Except then Fall Fest with Delilah happened, two and a half years ago, and I forgot to clean out my lost and found so those things have been back there for all that time.
In my defense, I did launder the underwear. I’m not disgusting.
I hear the sound of cabinets shutting, and a moment later, Delilah’s back.
“Good as new,” she says, holding up her thumb. It’s got unicorns with rainbow manes on it now.
“I have those because of Rusty,” I tell her, the pit of my stomach still swirling. “She got a skinned knee here once and was bummed that I only had boring bandaids, so I got cool ones. They’re a couple years old.”
“I shudder to think what she’d want now,” Delilah says without looking at me. She picks up the knife again, considers the cantaloupe.
Underwear. It had to be black, lacy underwear. Fuck.
“Go sit down, I’ll get that,” I tell her, rescuing the last of the bacon from the pan. “Don’t cut yourself again.”
“Fine,” she says, teasing and tense all at once. “You want orange juice?”
“Thanks,” I say, and she pours.
We have breakfast and don’t mention the brush, or the bag, or the panties, and I tell myself: clean slate. It doesn’t matter.
Those were just crumbs of the past, and they don’t matter.
I hold my phone out in front of me, the flashlight shining into the narrow darkness, cobwebs sticking in my arm hairs. My nose tickles.
I have to clean under my bed more often.
Just as I’ve found a questionable pile of fabric on the far side, my phone rings in my hand. It’s Caleb.
“Hey,” I say.
“Why do you sound so weird?”
“Why do you sound so weird?”
He laughs.
“Seriously, though.”
“I’m cleaning my house,” I tell him, which is technically true. My phone flashlight is still one, illuminating the under-bed-space to my right and something that looks like a huge knot of computer cables.
“Are you cleaning your house from an iron lung?” he asks.
“Can I help you in some way, or did you just call to harass me?” I ask, scooting backward from under the bed.
“I called to see if you wanted me to pick you up on the way to Mom’s,” he says.
Right. I’m supposed to be there in an hour or so, but I’ve still got most of my house to scour.
“No thanks,” I say, sitting on the floor and leaning against my bed. “I’m gonna be a little late.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line.
“Because of cleaning?”