Page 5 of Tempted By the Safety
“Milo,” he says. I let him give it to me, even though I already know. Then the grin tilts. “And oh, I know who you are, boss.”
I open my mouth to correct it, Spencer’s fine, we’re not doing that, but he’s already walking backward toward the street, apron over his shoulder now, telling me he’ll need an address and a start date. By the time I decide whether the title’s worth fighting over, he’s rounded the corner and gone, leaving me alone with the dumpster.
2
Milo
Packing my entire life takes eleven minutes, which is either impressive or deeply embarrassing, depending on how you want to look at it. I’ve decided to go with impressive, mostly because the alternative involves thinking too hard about how a twenty-two-year-old man can fit everything he owns into one duffel bag and two milk crates, and I don’t have time for that today.
The shoebox-sized studio doesn’t help. I’ve never minded it much, because it was the first apartment I ever signed a lease on by myself. But it came with rent that ate my last paycheck whole and would’ve eaten next month’s too, if next month’s still existed, which it doesn’t. So Spencer’s offer is lucky timing, the kind you grab with both hands before it disappears.
I fold the last of my shirts into the duffel and zero in on the outfit hanging on the back of my closet door, the one I picked out last night. Cream cropped knit polo, high-waisted pleated shorts, white crew socks, and the vintage Adidas I thrifted two summers ago and have been babying ever since. It’s my best outfit. It is also, I know with total clarity, completely wrong for whatever a personal assistant is supposed to wear on day one. But a proper PA wardrobe costs actual money, the kind you get after a first paycheck, and I refuse to show up to my newgazillionaire boss’s house looking like I don’t know how to dress myself. If I have to choose between wrong-but-confident and right-but-broke, I’m always taking wrong-but-confident.
My phone rings while I’m wrapping the knife roll, my mother’s contact photo lighting up the screen. It’s a picture I took of her at Easter three years ago, mid-laugh, flour on her cheek. I answer and wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder so I can keep working.
“Milo, honey, he’s saying the water heater thing is my fault,” she says, straight into the crisis.
“What water heater thing?”
“The one that flooded the hallway. He’s saying I should’ve reported the noise sooner, like I’m supposed to know what a bad water heater sounds like versus a good one, and now he wants to take it out of the deposit—”
“Ma. Breathe. You didn’t do anything.” I set the phone on speaker, freeing both hands for the knife roll. It’s the one expensive thing I own, six pieces of German steel I bought with three months of saved tips back when I still thought I was going to cook for a living instead of just wanting to. It goes into a hoodie, sleeves wrapped around the blade end, tucked dead center of the duffel where nothing can crush it. “You call him back, you tell him you want it in writing, from him, what he’s claiming caused it. Landlords hate putting things in writing. He’ll drop it or he won’t, but either way you’re covered.”
“In writing,” she repeats, like she’s taking notes. “Okay. Okay, I can do that.”
I zip the duffel a third of the way and glance at the clock. “Mom, I gotta run. I’ve got the new job today, remember? I told you about it.”
“The football player.” The smile creeps back into her voice, which is the whole reason I described the job to her that way instead of anything more specific. “My son, working for a football player.”
“It’s not that exciting, Ma. Just calendar stuff and errands.”
“I know, I know. Go, go. Call me tonight.” She hangs up before I can, which is very her, and I’m smiling at the phone when it buzzes again, this time with a text instead of a call. But the smile doesn’t survive contact with my brother’s name.
Dean: hey. u around? need 200, last time swear
I look at that for a second. Then I open my banking app because I already know the balance is bad. I want to confirm exactly how bad before I decide anything. And there it is: enough to survive, barely, if nothing goes wrong between now and whenever Spencer’s first paycheck lands. I do the math three different ways. All three come out the same, which is that I cannot send Dean two hundred dollars and still be a person with a working phone plan.
I send him a hundred and fifty.
Me: last time you said last time. consider this me buying stock in your promise
He sends back a laughing emoji and aur the best, and no acknowledgment of the fifty-dollar gap, which tells me he either didn’t notice or noticed and decided not to make it weird, and either way I let it go. There’s no room to think about it.
I zip my duffel bag the rest of the way, hoist it onto one shoulder, and stack the two milk crates so I can take everything in one trip, because if two years of waiting tables gave me one skill, it’s carrying more than any reasonable person should in a single pass.
I stand in the doorway a moment and look back at the empty studio. It looks smaller empty than it ever did full, which doesn’t seem like it should be possible, but there it is.
I’ve got a car coming and a new job I don’t understand yet on the other side of it.
***
The gate swings open before the driver even finishes rolling to a stop. The driveway alone is longer than my old block. Then the house itself comes into view, pale and expensive and spotless, and I can’t picture anyone ever leaving a coffee cup out in it. I sit with my duffel on my knees, doing quiet math on how many of my old studios would fit inside.
Spencer opens the door before I’ve made it up the steps, shoulders set high and square, weight forward, like a man bracing for impact. It’s not aimed at me, I don’t think. It just lives in him. And a tense man is a man who needs teasing. That’s just science.
“You look like you’re expecting bad news,” I say, hefting the milk crates onto my hip.
“I’m expecting a conference call.” He looks at me then, one long sweep, chin to sneakers and back. “That’s not exactly office attire.”
