Page 12 of You'll Love it Here

I pace the creaky wood floor of my tidy apartment. I’m ready and willing to put in hours of work. And this feels like injustice. A puzzle. They want me to take time to get myself together, but how are they going to see how great I’m doing from here?

I turn around and notice my tote purse has only one strap looped around the hook—the other hangs open with a second bag of Cheetos inside. Oh god, I was on a bender.

I grab the snack bag free to throw it out.

And then I see it.

My knees feel weak, like I’m back in that meeting. I feel just the same. Like the world is falling away from me. Like I’m stuck inside myself.

At some point last night, I bought a Pez dispenser.

It’s like my brain shuts down from reality. I’m taken back to all the moments, all the apologies, all the times when my dad would give me one of these to make up for his latest screwup while drinking.

A knock sounds at my door, and Ernest loses his shit barking, ready to bite someone’s dick off. I’m shot back to reality.

“Mona, it’s Sami,” his voice calls through the door.

I wipe my eyes and steel myself. I need to show everyone I’m perfectly normal, and I might as well start with him.

About Last Night

I pull open my heavy wooden door to find that Sami has changed into a light-blue T-shirt. A giant bag of kibble is leaning against the doorframe and a harness is in his hand. His hat is gone and his hair is slightly wet; he must have showered. A few damp pieces fall just over his brows, teasing at his eyes.

“I come bearing Ernest’s stuff.” He holds the harness a little higher and a clean minty scent wafts my way.

“Thanks,” I croak. He must sense my discomfort, because his gaze crawls up me, assessing.

He eyes the Yoshi Pez dispenser that I’m still holding on to. “Pez?”

“Oh... yes.” I swallow down the unease and force brightness back into my voice, the way I always do at work. “Would you like one?” I hold it out, as if offering him a little welcome candy at the door was always my intention.

“Sure.” He accepts the dispenser and tilts Yoshi’s head back once to release a candy, then pops it into his mouth. “When I was a kid, I used to pretend I was dramatically popping pills whenever I had these.”

I can’t help the loud huff of air that releases from my nose, almost a laugh. Almost a joke, even; is this a good sign? “In that case, are you sure you want just the one?”

He grins, that dimple creeping back. He taps his belly. “I better not. Lunch is coming up.”

“If you’re sure.” I take the dispenser back and bury it in my purse, far out of sight. “Come in.” I back into the door to invite him into my tiny theoretical foyer, which is more the floor space between the kitchen and bathroom. He hoists the jumbo bag of kibble higher and rests it on the hall bench, arms flexing in the process. I can’t believe I commented on his arms last night—and that’s only the part Iremember. I can’t believe I attempted to flirt in that state of drunkenness, let alone with a guy I live so close to, and will probably have to make eye contact with several times in the foreseeable future. What was my drunk ass thinking?

Since I opened the door, Ernest has been jumping excitedly by way of greeting, which for his short tube of a body means flopping around like an eel out of water.

“Hey, buddy.” Sami kneels to pat the little guy on the head. When he stands back up, he takes a step farther in—which is a step too far. I follow his gaze as he takes in my apartment. The place is tidy, but it’s not exactly unique or groundbreaking. There’s no art on the walls—that’s for when I make it to a real home. Furniture: Ikea specials that I assembled while listening to a Dr. Death podcast. Bookshelf:Closing the Deal,The Persuasion Effect,Brand Like You Mean It. Alphabetized, of course. And yet, as I watch Sami’s eyes flit around the room, I feel exposed. He probably already thinks I’m a creep after the lobby situation. Does a strange lack of personal items just reinforce whatever idea he already has of me?

His stare crawls to the ancient white fridge à la rental that has my meal-plan whiteboard magneted on the front before turning back to me. I tense. “You’re extremely organized.”

“You got me.” When you grow up in a house of madness, organization is the only antidote.

His expression shifts to the old Persian rug under my coffee table (that portion of the floor is so scraped it needed covering with a rug from home). “You know, I didn’t realize you were half Iranian until last night.”

My face grows instantly warm. “Me neither?”

He chuckles at my terrible joke while I freak out internally. Another piece of knowledge to add to my blackout gap from last night. I shared that I was half Persian. God, I must’ve been babbling like a total dong.

Then his eyes snag on the vision board hung above my desk. I’d originally tacked it there to collect inspiration for new campaigns, but slowly it became a dream board of things I wanted: vacations I planned to take, outfit combos my dream self dared to wear, recipes I would prepare when I miraculously found the time and energy to cook. Also featured: nicer rental listings I would check out once my promotion was in hand. I was so close to the end of mysecondFive-Year Plan, this was all supposed to become a reality this year. But then I biffed my life, and if Sami outs me as a prime suspect to Irene, those dreams are DOA.

I square my shoulders. I need to apologize, but I shouldn’t confess to things he has no proof of. That would only get me in more trouble.

“Hey, so I’m actually glad you came by...” I start.