Page 8 of Between the Pipes

“Oh, right. It’s…” Sweat beads on the back of my neck as I squint through the window ineffectually. I can’t see beyond the light provided by the streetlamps, and even that is shadowy. I have no idea where we are on campus right now. “Uh, you can just let me out here. I’ll walk.”

He looks over at me, disbelievingly. “I’m not letting you out here, what is wrong with you? It’s the middle of the night and this is an empty parking lot. You could get mugged, or something.”

“You just pointed out that it’s empty.”

“Do you argue every single fucking thing?” He snaps.

“Okay, just…go that way.” I sound confident, and with an exasperated shake of his head, Anthony drives forward. My eyes ache from how hard I’m squinting right now, looking out the window desperately. I just need to recognizeonething, and I’ll know where we are.

When we finally pull up in front of my cottage, I’m supremely embarrassed. Twenty minutes of driving around, and at one point I’m pretty sure I had him driving in a circle. I make a mental pact with myself to only leave the house for work from now on.Fuck dating, I’ll die alone.

“It’s confusing here, in the dark,” Anthony says, unbuckling his seatbelt. This is a kind thing to say, and I hate him for it. He gets out of the car before me, and I hastily shove open my own door before he can come around and open it for me. I join him on the sidewalk, carefully stepping up over the curb. He’s standing, hands on hips, surveying my place. “You live here?”

“Yeah.” It’s a small cottage, not even big enough to be considered house. But I have it to myself and I’m far enough removed from the rest of the campus that it’ll be quiet, even during the school year.

“Wow, it looks nice.”

I’ll have to take his word for it. Knowing that I owe him something for driving me home, I make him an offer I pray he’ll refuse. “Do you want to come inside for a drink?”

We’re standing under a streetlight, so I can see exactly how happy this makes him. “Sure, thanks.”

Lovely. “Alright. Come on in.”

Anthony

I hadn’t noticed it until now, but Nico walks like he skates. It’s like he’s testing the ground for sturdiness before he places his full weight on it. I doubt I would have noticed it at all, but the second he walked through the door of his house, it changed. He’s more confident, and the tension in his shoulders loosens—when he moves into the main room, he does it without his usual hesitation. Maybe he’s got anxiety, and being out in public spaces makes him nervous.

“I like your place,” I tell him, from where I’m taking my shoes off at the front door. I line mine up with his, because he strikes me as one of those people who are freaks about cleanliness.

“Kitchen is this way,” is all he says in return.

I move slowly after him, wanting to snoop a little bit. I might have been a little quick on the draw, telling him his house was nice. The couch and chairs are all pushed against the walls, and the coffee table is centered perfectly in the middle of the room. You’d have to lean forward andreachif you wanted to utilize the table while sitting on any of the other furniture. There isn’t a single piece of art on the walls, nor even a TV. No bookshelf. No rugs on the hardwood floor. I’ve seen staged homes with more character than this.

Passing through an equally spare dining room, I get to the kitchen to find Nico opening a cabinet door. There’s nothing pinned to his refrigerator door, and the counters are bare but for a coffee pot. If he hadn’t had the key, I’d wonder if he actually lived here at all.

“I don’t have anything stronger than beer,” he tells me, pointing a finger to the refrigerator. “Help yourself.”

I do, opening the door to find a neatly organized selection of food. It’s more organized than even Corwin’s refrigerator, and that’s saying something. I grab a beer but hesitate to get one for him when I see Nico pull a mug from the cupboard.

“I’m going to have tea,” he says, and sets about filling a kettle and putting it on the stove.

“You don’t drink?” I ask, remembering that he only had a water glass on the table in front of him at the bar.

“No,” he says, shortly. It’s an answer that leaves no further room for questions.

“My friend, Corwin, doesn’t drink either,” I offer, leaning against a counter and watching him. He moves easily, fluid in the way I would have expected him to be on the ice.Where was this ease during practice?

“Corwin Sanhover?”

“Yeah. Troy doesn’t much, either, during the season. They’re both better at following the nutrition plans than I am.”

He’s started the water, and leans against the counter opposite me as he waits for it to boil. Idly, he rubs a circle into his right temple like he’s got a headache.

“It’s not a health thing, for me. Alcohol makes me dizzy, so I avoid it altogether.” There is a challenging note to his voice when he says this, like he expects me to argue against alcohol making him dizzy.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Would it stop you if I said no?” He counters.

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