Page 8 of Faking the Heat

“See?” I say, raising the mug to the cat. “Totally normal. Completely in control.”

Bowie pauses, mid-paw-lick, and gives me a look that is pure skepticism.

“Fine,” I say. “But we’re trying, okay?”

He finishes his face, wash, hops down, and vanishes into the living room, probably to find the one patch of sunlight I haven’t claimed yet.

I sip the tea, and for a moment, the warmth outpaces the anxiety.

In this moment, in this kitchen, wearing clothes that aren’t mine and standing on a floor that will never be mine, I am nobody’s responsibility except my own.

I can work with that.

I last about eight minutes before I ruin my own resolve.

It starts with the sketchpad, which I fish out of my bag and prop on my knees like a shield. I flip to a blank page and let my hand go through the motions, lines, curves, a loose geometric study of the window’s ironwork, but none of it is intentional. I’m watching myself from a safe distance, seeing how long I can pretend to be the version of me that has artistic discipline, when really all I want to do is scream. Or sleep for twenty-four hours. Or get in a car and drive until I hit saltwater.

I am mid-doodle, mug of green tea clutched in my off-hand, when the lock on the apartment door clicks and my panic returns, sharp and instinctive. I look down at myself, Sterling’s t-shirt , Sterling’s boxers, bare legs tucked underneath me like I live here, like this is a thing I do every day. I should move. I should hide. I should, at the very least, untangle my legs and pretend to be a person with dignity.

Instead, I freeze.

Sterling comes in loaded like a pack mule. There’s a small coffee carrier in one hand (four cups, because he is a man who believes in overkill), a brown paper bag from the bakery that I love, and a giant, luridly turquoise plastic bag from the pet store, the logo bright enough to sear the retinas. He balances it all with the steady hands of a bomb technician and walks right past me without comment, which means he definitely noticed and is being polite.

He puts everything on the kitchen counter, glances in my direction, and does a quick up, down. His mouth tugs sideways, but he says nothing about the outfit. Instead, he goes straight to work. opening cabinets, unpacking the pet store loot, reading labels, throwing away the extra packaging. He moves with purpose, like a guy who has learned the hard way that stopping to think is the enemy of efficiency.

I watch him, the way you do when you’re trying to figure out how someone works from the inside out. His navy station shirt is darkened with a small line of sweat, but he’s not even slightly out of breath from carrying the load up five flights. There’s a new cut on one knuckle, a patch of soot on his wrist. He’s so focused on the task at hand that it’s almost endearing, and I want to say something, thank you, or sorry, or even a well-timed “nice shirt”, but the words stick.

Then he pulls out the litter box. Still in its box. He sets it on the counter next to the cat food, which is the fancy kind, hypoallergenic, anti-hairball, marketed to people who think their pets have delicate digestive systems. There’s a sticky note on the bag. It says “Bowie” in Sterling’s all, caps, firefighter, legible handwriting. The note is unnecessary and somehow ruins me. I have to swallow three times before I trust myself to speak.

Sterling finally looks over at me, eyebrows raised. “You okay? You want breakfast?” he asks, as if the last ten hours of my life haven’t happened. “I got you the thing with the egg and spinach, unless you changed your mind about hating bacon.”

“I didn’t,” I say, which comes out embarrassingly thin. I try to strengthen it with a smile, but it probably reads more like a grimace.

“Cool,” he says, and turns back towards the counter dividing up the food.

I set my mug on the end table, walk to the kitchen, and before I can talk myself out of it, I just, hug him. It’s not graceful. It’s not even particularly well-timed. I have to sidestep around a bag of cat litter, and my head bumps his shoulder at a weird angle, but once I commit, I commit. Arms around his ribs, cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt, inhaling a mixture of fresh laundry and smoke and something uniquely Sterling.

He freezes. Not because he’s annoyed or surprised, but because, I suspect, he is trying very hard not to drop the coffee that he’s pouring with shaking hands. After a beat, he shifts, puts the cups on the counter, and lets his arms close around me. It’s not dramatic. He doesn’t squeeze or say anything clever. He just holds on.

I stand there, mortified, for what is probably three seconds but feels like an entire solar cycle. Then I let go, step back, and wipe at the corner of my eye in case a rogue tear has slipped out. “Sorry,” I say. “That was, “

He shakes his head. “You’re good. I didn’t know if you’d want a croissant too, so I got both.”

He hands me my coffee. The lid is marked “M” in black sharpie, and when I pop it open, I see the oat milk and no foam and the single sugar packet, just as ordered. I can’t help it, I laugh, sharp and a little unhinged. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

He just shrugs, offers the paper bag, and I take my sandwich and retreat to a barstool. There’s a familiarity to the way he orchestrates breakfast, like we’ve done this a hundred times. Maybe we have, just never in this configuration. Me in his clothes, him buying litter for a cat he will never, ever admit to liking.

Bowie appears, summoned by the sound of a bag rustling. He jumps onto the counter and noses the edge of the litter box, then fixes Sterling with a look of pure feline contempt.

“You’re welcome, furball,” Sterling says, and slices open the bag of food. Bowie deigns to eat a single kibble, then walks away with a tail flick that somehow conveys both thanks and scorn.

I sip my coffee, and it is perfect. Of course it is because everything this man does has to be perfect. I take a bite of the sandwich, and it is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Maybe because my stomach is eating itself, or maybe because I am starved for anything that isn’t crisis.

We eat in silence for a while, the easy kind of silence that doesn’t require filling. Sterling, for all his hero complex, is a champion at letting people just be. He asks if I want hot sauce. I say yes. He knows which brand I like. He puts the bottle on the counter and then wipes a hand down his face, looking at me with that slight head tilt that means he’s about to ask if I’m okay.

I beat him to it. “You didn’t have to do all this,” I say, gesturing at the spread. “Or the cat stuff, or the, “ I can’t even finish.

He shrugs. “You needed it.”