Page 150 of Overdue I Love You's
“I’m in front of your building, they won’t let me in.” I meant to say it rudely, but it comes out dejected.
“Won’t happen again,” I can already hear him dialling a number in the back. “Is everything okay?” He asks, dismayed.
“We’ll talk when you get here,” I hang up.
The security guard holds a finger to his ear, listening to someone. He looks at me then nods. “You’re allowed in, Ma’am.”
He lets me through.
If I came here mere hours ago, I would have thanked him. Possibly talked about his life, where the name Josiah came from, how he got his job here. But there’s a dark cloud hanging over me and the only person that can remove it won’t be home until the evening.
Dean texts me the code to his apartment, telling me to take the elevator all the way up. Of course he lives in a penthouse. Almost forgot how rich Vuk Securities was until he dumped it in my account.
Any other day, I’d notice the sleek door of his house. When it unlocks, it doesn’t make the creaky sound mine makes. I’d notice thefloor-to-ceiling windows as soon as I enter, how there’s a closet to my right, a shoe rack to my left. I’d notice that when I walk through the space, there’s an open-concept kitchen near his living space. There’re two stairwells curved around the living area that lead upstairs. Somewhere up there, he has a room.
I’d feel how soft his couch is.
I’d notice how wonderfully designed the place is.
But all I really notice is how this place isn’tDean.
I don’t know how long I sit in one spot. Scenarios of how this conversation will go play one-by-one. One could be that he walks in, and I throw water on his face, yelling at him to take the money back. Two could be that we sit down, stare, because we both know what I’m going to say. Third, is whateverthisis.
He walked in ten minutes ago and stands in front of the fridge. He’d look composed if it isn’t for the rapidtappingagainst the steel wall, or the dishevelled way his hair sticks out in all directions, the perspiration of sweat dripping from his temple, or how he pulled his tie out fast enough to pop the shirt’s top button. “I can make us pizza.” His shoulder moves up, down, up, down, synchronising with his breathing.
It's two-thirty in the afternoon. Work doesn’t end until five.
Dean left for me.
“I can,um, do pizza.”
We’re being awkward.
Bringing up money is always weird. Your friend borrows twenty dollars from you, you don’t know how to ask for it back. After dinner when you both actively try to fight for the bill, one of you always backs out because you don’t know how to deal with it.
All of the world’s problems come back to money.
Dean doesn’t say a word when he lifts his sleeves, washes hishands, and keeps his eyes away from me.
“Do you want help?” If I get into the kitchen, lighten up the mood, it’ll make it better. We’ll roll out the dough, decorate a pizza, and talk about why he thought sending me money was appropriate.
He looks up. Watercolour green glazing over my browns. “I’d like that.”
Whatever scenario number this is, might work.
“I’m gonna head to the bathroom first,” I drag the last part out and point around. “Where…”
“The door next to the entrance.”
Not a closet then.
As I do my business and stare in the mirror—I brainstorm again. There has to be a good way to talk about this without letting anger get in the way. Which I am, by the way. I’m mad but not enough to sabotage our relationship. We spent far too long walking on eggshells and not enough time together.
I’ll bring it up when we start decorating the pizza with toppings.
“What thefuck, Dean?”
The door slams on the outside.
