Page 117 of Fake As Puck
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“Ready to see my apartment?” Liv asks as we’re driving back from Tessa’s house after dropping off two thoroughly exhausted children.
“Yeah.”
“Fair warning, it’s small. Like, really small. Studio apartment small.”
“I don’t care about the size.”
“And it’s not fancy. No granite countertops or walk-in closets or any of the things you’re used to.”
“Liv.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t care about any of that.”
“Okay. Just... don’t judge me for my lifestyle choices.”
“What lifestyle choices?”
“You’ll see.”
Her apartment is in a converted building in Silver Lake, and she’s right that it’s small. But as soon as I step inside, I understand why she loves it here.
It’s completely, utterly her.
There are plants everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, sitting on windowsills, trailing down from shelves. The walls are covered with framed photos and artwork that looks like she collected it over years. Candles are scattered on every surface, and the whole place smells like vanilla and flowers.
“It’s perfect,” I say, and I mean it.
“It’s tiny.”
“It’s you.”
She looks around like she’s seeing it through my eyes, and I can tell she’s nervous about what I think.
“The bathroom’s through there if you want to shower,” she says, pointing to a door that’s partially hidden behind a beaded curtain. “I know you’ve been carrying children around all day and probably feel gross.”
“Thanks.”
“Towels are in the cabinet. Use whatever you need.”
The bathroom is as small as advertised, but it’s clean and bright, with more plants and more candles and products that smell like her. I shower quickly, using her shampoo, and when I come out wearing just a towel, I find her sitting on her bed.
She’s changed into shorts and a tank top, and she’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
“Good shower.”
“Good.”
We’re both being carefully polite, like we’re not sure what the rules are now. Like we’re testing the waters of whatever this has become.
“West?”
