Page 2 of Eyes in the Shadows

“Why don’t you just tell Stacey that you don’t want them?” I ask as I move over to the window to shut it so he’s more comfortable.

Harrison has used the words “trigger food” to describe cookies in the past, which I take to mean that he has a complex relationship with food totally different from my own. I’ve never asked, and he’s never expanded on it, which is fine by me because I’d rather not get involved in a conversation about weight or body image with someone whose life experiences are all on the opposite side of the scale.

The sound of paper tearing makes me turn to see Harrison tugging at the fumigation notice as he steps inside and closes my front door behind himself.

“Because if I tell her I don’t want them, she’ll stop,” he replies simply. I only laugh, so he expands, “I don’t want her to think I don’t want them. I like that she makes them for me.”

“That’s sweet.” I smile. Their delicate, cautious courtship gives me such vicarious delight. I love love.

“God, it smells amazing in here. I gotta admit, when you said yogurt and pasta, I was pretty skeptical. Whenever you get your own restaurant, you need to put someone else in charge of naming dishes.”

I hand him a plate. It’s a calculated exchange, perhaps over-thought on my part. I fill my plate first, then sit facing away as he takes as much or as little as he wants with no judgment on my part.

He takes the chair across from me and lays the paper in his hand on the table on top of a small pile of mail. He gestures to it with his chin as he carefully twirls the pasta around his fork. “So, what are you going to do for the next three days?”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I watch as he takes the first bite, trying not to look too eager and weird, and I smile in satisfaction when his eyes close with bliss.

“Good?” I verify, knowing it is.

“So good.”

I pick up my fork and break off a bite of fish to top the swirl of pasta. It’s got a great balance of flavors—tangy and rich from the yogurt, with plenty of complimentary spices. And the salmon is perfectly done, if I do say so myself.

“Um, I’m really not sure. I haven’t had much time to think about it since I got home. Kind of makes me wish my parents hadn’t moved to Florida last year. What are you going to do?”

“I’ll probably just post up in the library—if I can get there early enough, I can grab one of the study rooms with a door that locks. I’ve got class anyway, so it’ll be nice to be so close to campus. I’ll have to sleep sitting up, but it’s better than spending money I don’t have on a hotel room.”

I wince, as that one hits a little too close to home. “Maybe I’ll see if Rachel’s wife is okay with me crashing on their couch,” I say, not overly thrilled by that option.

The sous chef at Bistro Jacques, Rachel, is friendly enough, though I wouldn’t call us friends. Her wife, Eliza, came to our Christmas party a few weeks ago. Eliza got drunk and confessed that she’d been nervous to meet me because of how much Rachel talked about me, but then she saw me in person and knew she had nothing to worry about.

I mean, I don’t look much like wiry, petite, bottle-blonde, Jersey-Italian Mrs. Eliza Lee, so if Rachel’s got a type, I’m clearly not it. And I definitely don’t like Rachel like that, but still. Ouch.

“It’s so annoying. This shitty building gets bugs and we have less than 12 hours to figure out where to stay and shower and eat for three whole days… And five bucks? What a slap in the face,” he grumbles, carefully twirling up another tidy bite.

“Yeah, I’d say I can’t believe how short notice it is…” we exchange a look and Harrison chuckles, “but I think we both can believe it.”

“Ed probably forgot to put up the notice until today,” Harrison suggests and I have to admit that it sounds very likely. “You should just come to the library with me.”

“For three days?” I say, unable to stop from wrinkling my nose. “Trust me, we’re not that close. You really don’t want to know what I’ll smell like after three days in a small room with no shower.”

He breezes past my self-deprecation. “They just opened that new gym over on Rider Street, and with the New Year they’re running all kinds of specials. If we both sign up for a free month trial pass, we can shower there.”

I pause, trying to consider it but not getting very far. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m not 20 years old and I can’t sleep sitting up. You see, young man, when you’re approaching 30, you start getting this thing called back pain.”

He pretends wide-eyed wonder. “Tell me more of this back… pain? Is that why you have to wear those?”

I follow his line of sight down to my rubber clogs. I lift my legs and turn my ankles to allow the light to catch on the little decorative buttons I’ve placed in some of the holes. “Don’t tell me you’re a Croc hater.”

“I assume no one actually buys them. I figure, you reach a certain age, and a package just shows up at your door with a pair of reading glasses from the pharmacy and the ugliest shoes in the world.”

My lips twitch. “I don’t need the readers yet, but these bad boys are comfortable. Great for arch support.”

“Even if they are—”

“They are.”

With a huff of a laugh, he tries again. “Even if they are, it’s like 20 degrees outside and they have holes.”

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