Page 71 of Reluctantly Yours

I’ve never played Scrabble by myself before, but I’m sure I’ll manage. I’m deciding whether I want to play as two players alternating or just one when Barrett clears his throat behind me.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

I know Barrett well enough by now to know that sometimes his questions come out as accusations even when he doesn’t mean it that way. Now being a perfect example.

“Playing Scrabble.”

“By yourself?”

“Do you want to play?” I ask.

His answer is to sit across from me. I’m surprised that he doesn’t ask to move the board so we’re sitting in proper chairs. My size is more conducive to this seating arrangement than Barrett’s tall frame. Instead, he folds his long legs under the coffee table and rests his back against the sofa behind him.

“What’s with you and word games?” he asks, carefully selecting his tiles. It’s a methodic process so intense I wonder if he’s using those telekinetic powers of his to read the letters on the tiles. Maybe that’s x-ray vision. The concentration of Barrett’s stare makes me think he has both.

“I like words.”

“I can tell.”

I arrange my tiles, moving them around to find out which word option will get me the most points. I think back to last weekend when he ruined my WordIt streak. I’ve decided I don’t want to just beat Barrett. Annihilation would be preferable.

I have a thousand Es which seems annoying at first, but then I discover that I can play the word SQUEEZE using two letters with huge point totals and one happens to land on a double letter score space.

“Thirty-five points! Beat that.” I’m ready to declare victory.

Barrett studies his tiles saying nothing. His long fingers manipulate the tiles, thoroughly feeling them out. I should be used to this by now, but come on. Starting off with a thirty-five-point word in Scrabble is huge.

Ironically, that’s the word that Barrett plays off my last E. HUGE.

“Congratulations,” I say, trying to keep a straight face, “eight points.”

I write down our first-round scores using a piece of paper and pen I found in the box. I’m going to frame this score card and hang it in my apartment.

Which reminds me. “I talked to my landlord yesterday,” I say, arranging my tiles again, looking for another high point word. “I was supposed to be able to move back in next week but she said there were delays.” I lift my eyes toward Barrett. “Do you know anything about that?”

While I’m not entirely anxious to return to the shoe box that is my apartment, especially after living at Barrett’s spacious and luxurious brownstone, I do want to make sure the timeline for completion coincides with me being single again. It would be weird if we broke up and I was still living at his place.

“It’s not ready yet,” he responds. No details, no explanation.

Inspired by Barrett, I play the word HUMDRUM. It earns me a triple letter score and a double word score for a total of thirty-eight points. It also earns me a smile from Barrett.

“Why are you smiling?” I ask. “You’re losing.”

“Am I?”

“Yes to both.” I laugh.

He shrugs.

“You should smile more,” I tell him, an idea forming in my brain. “In fact, I’m going to put it on my list.”

“That seems like a waste.”

“Not at all.” I shake my head. “It’s a great smile.”

“How many times of day would be sufficient?” He’s amused now.

“It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s always directed at me.”