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“I don’t have any emotional attachment to any of if it,” I say. I don’t.

Brooklyn looks up at me from her seat behind my desk.

“No, really—I don’t.”

“You don’t think you do,” Brooklyn says.

“I don’t.”

“Okay. Then why do you keep all of it?”

Why do I keep everything that pertains to work? “I guess because I’m afraid I will need it again.”

Brooklyn smiles at me. “See? You have an attachment. I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yes. We all have certain things we hold on to because we’re afraid we’ll need them again or we’ll forget about them.”

I giggle.

“That’s funny?” Brooklyn asks.

“Not funny,” I reply. “My ex is a psychiatrist. I seem to remember her saying that about people who hoard.”

“Well—”

I laugh. My house is not that of a hoarder’s. My desk on the other hand— “Point taken.”

“You’re welcome to stay here with me,” Brooklyn says. “You don’t have to if you have other things to do. We can go through the piles together later. No pressure either way. I understand if you’d rather stay.”

“I trust you,” I tell her. “There is something I need to do. Would you mind if I ran out?”

“Not as long as you don’t mind me being here alone.”

“Nope. I won’t be gone long.”

“No worries. This will take me a few—"

“Years?” I joke.

“Hours,” Brooklyn says.

I make my way out of the room and glance back. Brooklyn is focused on her task. I promised her dinner. When I looked into my refrigerator earlier, I realized dinner might be Dominos delivery. Not the impression I’d like to make. I shouldn’t worry about making any impression on Brooklyn. I doubt she’s given much thought to me beyond our working relationship. I can’t help it. I want her to like me. Pathetic as that might be, it’s the truth. I haven’t cooked for anyone in a long time. I seldom cook anything interesting for myself. Just the basics. I have a thousand gadgets in my kitchen I never use. Time to put a few to use. The question is, what would impress Brooklyn?

***

“Shit! Damnit, Carter,” I scold myself. I’m startled by a voice behind me.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I heard you scream.”

“I’m okay. I had a disagreement with my paring knife,” I explain.

Brooklyn moves beside me. A steady stream of red drips into the sink underneath the faucet.

“I guess I don’t need to ask who won,” she says.

I laugh.