Page 100 of Moonlighter
“You know. Forhim.” Duff shrugs. “I’ll call in and see if they would mind if I went home for a nap.”
“Good plan. I promise not to leave until you’re back.”
“I knew you were my favorite hockey player.” Duff pulls out his phone.
“Thanks, man.”
I go back inside and finish tidying up Alex’s kitchen. I brought enough food for six people and half of it is gone. It makes me weirdly happy to feed her, and I have no idea why.
Afterward, I get a beer and then take a tour of her den, turning on the TV and then looking at the magazines spread out on the coffee table.The Economist. Barron’s. I flip one of them open. The first article is “The Upcoming Currency Crisis.”
Nope. I flip it closed again.
And then there’s a loud crash in the bedroom.
26
Alex
“Fuck!”I shriek, clutching the star-shaped unit before it can fall all the way to the floor.
Eric hurries into the room, stopping when he sees that I’m unharmed, but surrounded by chaos.
“Everything is fine!” I say in a voice betraying more hysteria than light home repair usually calls for. “All it takes is a couple of simple steps, and I can’t even get it right on the fourth try!”
“Hey, Alex,” Eric says in the sort of calm voice you’re supposed to use on crazy people. He eases the unit out of my hands. “Can I ask how much shelving you’ve hung before?”
“None. Obviously.”
“Then why the hell wouldn’t you let me just help you for a second?”
I take a deep breath of air all the way into my diaphragm. “Please take your manly self into the next room and watch some television. I need to do this myself.”
“Because?” His pretty eyes are stormy.
“Because I just do.”
“Are you trying to make me crazy, here? Or does it just come naturally?”
“Hey, guess what? This isn’t about you. This isn’t even a little bit about you. I just want to build my own freaking shelf.”
“Is it the pregnancy hormones? You live in a fucking gorgeous apartment. But I would bet my left nut that there isn’t a single thing in this place that you built yourself. Why start today?”
“I’m having a child.”
“I noticed that.”
“I was once a child, as were you. However, I lived in a house where everything was done by the help. My parents never did a thing for me with their own hands. That summer you spent with us on the Vineyard — do you remember my father ever making us a sandwich?
“No.”
“That’s not the kind of parent I want to be. So I am hanging my child’s bookshelves. Even if they are theworst bookshelves ever seenin New York City. Perfection is not the point. I’m doing it because I care, and I want my child to know that.”
“Oh,” he says quietly. “I see.”
“You know that expression: born with a silver spoon in your mouth? My kid’s spoon is from freaking Cartier. Money is not our issue. But we are going to have plenty of issues.”
“Okay.”
