Page 48 of The Cartographer

I pull up my calendar and it’s a disaster, but I’ll figure it out. “Of course. Send me your flights when you book them. Or do you want me to have Matthew take care of them?”

“Would he? I’d love him forever. He’s still looking after you, right?”

“Always.” And thank god for that. What I would do without Matthew, I don’t know. “I’ll have him take care of the arrangements. Hey, I’m sorry to chat and run, but I’ve got some planning to do for my next session. Call you later?”

“Unless you’ve got a chance to spend time with your sexy new man. Then always spend time with the sexy man.”

“I didn’t say he was sexy.”

“Isn’t he?”

“Goodbye, Mom.”

“Love you.”

I hang up the phone and send Matthew an email about making my mother’s flight arrangements.

*

The relief Ifeel at getting Allie’s text a few days after we return from Las Vegas is palpable. Which is odd. It was beyond the concern I feel about my clients after intense sessions, especially toward the beginning of our relationship. I do not sit by the phone, waiting for boys to call, but that’s what it felt like after I got his text.

Kendra’s taking the kids to Philadelphia for a visit. Want to come over and watch the Sharks game?

A date. That’s what this feels like. Right? It’s…odd. I have several clients who are adamant they don’t date, but I’ve never claimed such a thing. Have just not done it much anyhow. It also sometimes gets a bit muddied with the work I do. There’s not so much lines drawn between clients and lovers as there is a continuum, with a few people shifting over time. While Allie’s never been anything but a lover, I wouldn’t have said we were dating, per se. This is particularly strange.

I knock at the yellow door of the modest bungalow I dropped him off in front of last week. It’s certainly not the nicest place in Oakland, but it’s not the worst by any means. It doesn’t take long for the door to swing open and for Allie to fill the frame, taking up the space in the doorway with his body, and…

“Why are you only wearing a towel?”

He makes a face as if it’s obvious. “I’ll tell you, but only if you explain why you’ve showed up on my doorstep with an overflowing grocery bag and a—seriously, is that a foam finger?”

I eye the thing on my hand. I’d had Matthew order me one of essentially everything in the team store after Allie had invited me over to watch the game. I don’t understand the appeal of this particular item, especially for other people who don’t have Allie’s look of delight to outweigh the awkwardness of having a giant foam thing encasing one’s hand. It feels terribly unsanitary and also suggestive in an unappealingly tawdry way.

Whatever. I’ve earned a broad grin, and that’s what I was hoping for.

“I thought I’d dressed appropriately for a sporting event. Is that not true?”

Allie shakes his head and gestures me in to the modest entryway. “Is there anything you do by halves?”

I stop on the threshold because I have to consider it. Is there? “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“Dude, that was rhetorical.”

Sure. “Well, I’m here now, and I’m ready for some hockey.”

He cocks his head, and his eyes narrow but he’s still got a smile on his face. “Wait, you thought we were actually going to watch the game?”

“That’s what you invited me here for, yes?”

“Uh, no. It’s like how ‘Netflix and chill’ is code for sex.”

“Then what is ‘watching the game’ code for?”

“Also sex.”

My eyebrows shoot halfway up my forehead. “If I had known that, I would’ve been way more into sports a long time ago.”

“Not for everyone.” He laughs and takes the grocery bag cradled in my arm. “You don’t even like sports. I figured you’d take the hint.”

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