Page 52 of Taking Chances

Her question makes me laugh. “Yeah. It’s pretty rare. There are bikes today that are faster or more advanced, but this—this is a classic.”

“I get that.” She points to the door and I nod, unlocking it and walking up the stairs.

The tones of my apartment are neutral, and it’s nowhere near as cozy as her place but I think it looks good. It’s clean and new, my furniture comfortable, my TV huge. Does she notice the picture frame that’s slightly askew, or the drop of paint on the TV stand? Does she notice that while most of my books are facing the right side, some of them are turned backward?

Those are all easy fixes. But ones I don’t plan to fix. Brand new spaces give me chills. They are usually staged to perfection, and I can’t stand it. So, instead of breaking a window or fucking up the paint job, I decided on more subtle ways to make my home less perfect.

“You read,” she states, like the thought is both surprising and not surprising. My hands itch as her eyes track my bookshelf. “Is that my book?” Her brows lift.

“Wh…?”

“Did you steal my book?” She rushes to the shelf, and I’m too in my thoughts to catch up to her. “This is my book. I was wondering where it was.” Her eyes are playful, like she can’t believe this happened.

“You planned to read it?”

“It’s one of my favorite books,” she says. “Why is it here?”

I scratch the back of my neck, thinking of a response. “It looked interesting, so I took a peek, and it accidentally ended up in my jacket.”

“You read it.” The color drains from her face as realization hits her.

“I did.”

“Oh, my god.” She slumps onto the couch, burying her face in her hands. “This is mortifying.”

“What is?”

“That book. We both know what’s in it.” She still hasn’t looked up.

“We do. But look at it this way—it turned into a great ice breaker for our talk tonight.” She groans in response. Looking at the bright side isn’t my usual forte, but I want to cheer her up. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“What’s the strongest drink you’ve got?”

I huff a laugh. “I got you hooked on whiskey, huh?” I joke. “But how about some wine?” She nods. “Red or white?”

“Red, please.”

I get to my free-standing fridge and take out a bottle of wine.

“Sorry, I only have cups. No wineglasses yet.” Shit, I haven’t thought this through.

“That’s fine. I love drinking out of cups.” She waves me off.

I pour us each a cup of wine,lol, and sit down next to her.

“So, for tonight, I want us to go over some things.”

“Oh, OK.” She takes a shy sip of her drink before setting the cup down on the coffee table.

“I think we should talk about expectations that we both have.”

“Like what?”

“Things like protection, exclusivity or non-exclusivity, etc. Whatever else you can think of.”

“I would prefer us to be exclusive. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I would feel icky if I knew you were sleeping with other women.” Her gaze darts to the side, like she’s embarrassed to ask that of me.

“I completely agree. We should be exclusive.” Her eyes lift, full of hope and for a second, the fear of hurting her returns.

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