Page 36 of Keeping It Professional

Ileaned my mop on the wall and crouched down by the bucket, scratching with my nail at the stain on the floor. Some time, maybe years ago, someone had spilled here, and whatever they’d spilled had set into the wood. I hadn’t noticed it when I moved in, or in the two weeks I’d lived here, until today. Today, making lunch, I’d chanced to look down, and there it had been, a big, faded stain.

I went to the cupboard and got out the bleach powder. The smell made my eyes sting as I shook it onto the stain. When I rubbed it in, the floor wax scraped off, but the stain underneath it stayed as it was. I mopped the spot clean and tried scrubbing with vinegar, then baking soda, then lemon juice. The stain weathered all of it. I reached for my phone and searchedgetting stains out of wood, and Google said vinegar or baking soda.

“Yeah, didn’t work.”

I went to the bathroom and found a bottle of peroxide, and soaked a cloth in it and laid that on the stain. About eighteen hours from now, I’d be heading to work. Seeing Miles for the first time since the night of the crash. It would be fine. We’d befine. We’d move on. What had happened between us was one of those things, adrenaline, attraction, letting off steam.

But he’d held my head so I wouldn’t bump it.

He’d zipped up my jacket when my cold hands kept fumbling.

I grabbed up my mop and swabbed all around the stain, and the rest of the kitchen, and down the front hall. Then I dumped out the bucket and scoured that clean too, and stowed the mop and the bucket back in the closet. By that time, the stain had been sitting a while, and I lifted the cloth to see if it’d faded. The wood all around it had, so the stain stood out more, but it hadn’t lightened at all, that I could see. And would it besowrong if I asked Miles out? I was into him. He was into me… unless he wasn’t, in the cold light of day. He hadn’t called, after all.

Neither had I.

Tomorrow at work, I’d look him in his eye, and I’d tell him?—

I’d say to him?—

I stared at the stain. Heat crept up my neck. What if I told him how I really felt, that I’d had a great time with him, that I’d love to go out, and he looked at me like he’d swallowed a bug? Maybe this time, I should let him speak first. Whatever he wanted, I could live with that.

But what if he said what he thought I’d want to hear? And he thought what I’d want was to keep on as we were? Then my silence would cost us the chance to be more, and we’d both feel rejected for no reason at all.

I dropped down, grabbed my cloth, and attacked the stain once again. This was getting me nowhere. Nowhere at all. No closer to a clean floor or a decision, and was this the first sign of PTSD?Was I clinging to Miles because of the crash? But, no. No, I couldn’t be. I’d liked him before that. Since our impulsive kiss in the bar, and maybe before that. Since the diner.

My phone blipped: a reminder. I needed to go. I’d promised Mom I’d come over and help her repaint. She’d been kind of lonely since I’d moved out, and I missed her as well, more than I’d expected to.

I rinsed out my scouring cloth and gave the floor one last wipe. My hands stunk of bleach, so I rinsed those off too, then I texted Mom —Hey, on my way.She sent back a smiley face, and then my phone buzzed.

“Hey, Mom. You need me to pick something up?”

Silence on the other end. I checked the call display — M. FLETCHER.

“Miles? Is that you?”

“Uh, yeah. Sophie? I got your number from Clive.” I could hear kids in the background, and a rumbling like thunder. The clatter of bowling pins. I smiled.

“Are you bowling?”

“Just wrapping up. Brian’s turning our shoes in, so I thought… I was thinking…” He cleared his throat. “You want to grab dinner our next day off?”

Relief flooded through me, so strong my knees buckled. I grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and sat down hard. “Oh, thank God.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

I bit my tongue. Had I said that aloud? “I was just worried it was going to be weird. Trying to think what to say to you tomorrow at work.” And I’d just said that too, and Miles was saying… nothing. I felt my ears redden.

“Miles?”

“So… is that a yes?”

“Oh, yeah. It is. I’d love to go out.”

“Then, Friday, right? I think we’re both off.”

I started to agree, then I remembered I couldn’t. “I told Jones I’d cover his Saturday graveyard. So Friday’s out, but what about Sunday?”

“Brian’s dad’s visiting, and he has to work. I said I’d pick the old man up and take him to dinner.” Miles huffed, and I heard him shuffling around. “I can’t find my schedule. How’s next week for you?”

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