Page 6 of When the Fake Snow Falls

“Hey, Stink!” Miles says from somewhere in the kitchen as soon as I open the apartment door. It’s his favorite term of endearment. I’m not even sure how it started, but he’s always said it lovingly.

“Hey.” I shut the door with my foot as I balance the heavy bag.

I find Miles’s tall, lanky frame putting salt around the rim of two margarita glasses. He has his back to me, his many tattoos on display. From here, I can make out pieces of the koi fish on his back poking out from his tank and the octopus wrapped around his calf.

He looks over his shoulder, shaking his head at the weight of the bag in my arms. “Let me guess,” he says as he turns back to making our drinks. “You didn’t know what to get me, so you bought the whole damn restaurant.”

Heaving our food onto the counter, I give him a dirty look behind his back. “You know I shouldn’t be allowed in there unsupervised, and I skipped lunch.”

“I saw you pack your lunch this morning,” he says with a questioning look before he finishes pouring our drinks.

“Nicolette needed her hair done a half hour early.”

“Of course she did.” He turns to face me. His scruff matches his black hair, his dark features only accentuated by the neon green glasses he wears. “What’s the damage?” He peeks into the brown paper bag on the counter before letting out a slow whistle. “Twosides of queso?” He hands over my margarita with a shake of his head.

Setting the drink down, I wave him off as I reach into the bag and pull out its contents. “Don’t hate me for my love of melted cheese.”

He grabs a taco and unwraps the neatly folded paper. “Youcan have all the melted cheese you want as long as you pay your half of the rent.”

I take a sip of my drink, remembering a time not so long ago when splurging on this much takeoutwouldhave meant struggling to pay rent. Hell, I hardly had time to stop for takeout between my last hair appointment of the day and starting my shift at the bar. Last year, my idea of splurging was upgrading to the name brand boxed mac and cheese for a quick dinner. I have to admit, as difficult as Nicolette and some of her friends can be, it feels like a breath of fresh air not having to work two jobs to make ends meet.

Last Christmas, I could hardly justify spending money on decorations. My eyes scan over our apartment. It’s so cozy here now. It feels like a home—our home. Our apartment isn’t the cheapest one we could have found, but Miles and I wanted to live downtown, and I promised him I’d find a way to make it work. I love living within walking distance from work, and even though Miles works from home, he’s a big fan of the craft beer scene this city has to offer.

The space is small, but everything has been recently updated. While we were looking for apartments, our list of needs only had two items on it.

Must be in Downtown Sanford.

Must have plenty of natural light.

The second requirement was more for Miles than me. He’s the one stuck working here all day, but I love how open our space feels thanks to a couple of big windows along the back wall and a screened patio with sliding glass doors. They’re only partially blocked right now thanks to the too-fat Christmas tree taking up most of our living room. When Miles and I went to pick out a tree, we knew we couldn’t get one too tall, but neither of us paid much attention to the lack of horizontalspace our apartment had to offer. Now we can only get in and out of our sectional couch one way, and it blocks some of the TV.

I reach for a chicken taco. “Lenny seems to be hard at work.”

He nods. “Yeah, I heard him earlier. I found out he built that elaborate display of ghosts in the lobby for Halloween. Maybe he’s making a life-sized Santa’s sleigh.”

“We’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure.”

Miles grabs one of the to-go cups of queso and holds it out for me. “Dig in. We have a lot of cheese to go through.”

I dip a chip. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Years ago, I figured I’d be settled down by now. If someone asked me where I saw myself in five years back then, I would have imagined a Tuesday night cooking dinner with my husband. If they had asked me a few years later, I’d imagine ordering takeout with my boyfriend. But now, I’ve accepted that the man I have the most intimate relationship with finds men as appealing as I do—maybe even more.

My phone buzzes on the counter next to me. A message from an unsaved number pops up, and I almost drop my taco to tilt the phone toward me. An unsaved number can only mean two things. It’s either a potential client, or it’shim.

Unknown Number:

Then I’d say you should let me take you out for some real food, so we can fix your broken palate.

I snort a laugh before I can stop myself, and Miles arches an eyebrow. “Why are you smiling at your phone like an idiot?”

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