Page 68 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

I smile and follow her out my door, through the lounge area to her apartment.

“Your door was open,” she says before letting me into her place. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer.”

“I probably had the music up too loud.”

“Neighbors these days,” she says with a smile. “So disruptive.”

I step into her apartment, and Olivia shuts the door behind me. She’s wearing sweats, and her hair is up off her face, haphazardly piled on her head with tendrils falling all around the edges. I’m as captivated by her now as I was last night when she entered the reunion in that dress.

I flick the light switch next to the door to check if it’s working. She might have shorted out the whole apartment. The light flickers on, and then there’s a loud zapping sound, followed by a clap, and then we’re in darkness.

Olivia yelps when the lights go out. I instinctively reach for her, my hand finding her elbow.

“I’ve got you,” I say quietly.

She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t pull her arm out of my gentle grasp.

A trace of grey-yellow light filters in from behind the curtains, casting everything on that side of the room in varied degrees of shadows, but otherwise, it’s a blackout.

“Logan?” Olivia says.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“I know that. I just … never mind. Thanks for trying to help.”

“What are you going to do now?” I ask, my hand still loosely holding her arm.

“Nothing. It’s Sunday. Steve—the building manager—isn’t answering. I’ll just … go to bed, I guess. Maybe I can drive to Megan’s or Lynette’s in the morning to get ready.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I think it is. I’m not going to be able to get ready in my trickle shower in the dark.”

I don’t know what a trickle shower is, and something tells me this isn’t the time to find out.

“You could stay at my place,” I offer spontaneously. “I’ll take the couch. My bed is comfortable. I just changed the sheets.”

I’m in marketing, and I’m doing a horrible job selling this option.

“You could sleep at my place and get ready there in the morning,” I tell her. “Whatever you need. Staying here would save you the time of driving across town on a workday in rush hour traffic.”

“Umm.”

She’s quiet after that response. I freeze in place, waiting for her answer, not wanting to push her, but hoping she’ll take me up on my offer.

“Olivia,” I finally say. “At least let me make you dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Didn’t you say you were cooking before the microwave blew?”

“I was just reheating some pasta.”

“I’ll make you pasta.”

She’s quiet again. So I wait.

Then she says, “Okay. Dinner. But then I’ll probably come back here to sleep.”

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