Page 18

18

Holt

We’re only a week in, but this thing with Ziggy is working out well so far.

I pay for groceries. She cooks. I eat what she cooks. She makes herself potatoes.

She goes to work.

Fletcher picks me up to go see the team doc and physical therapy staff and sometimes some of our other teammates.

I nap.

Monday, Ziggy took Jessica to her parents’ house to play with their dogs before going to work.

The rest of the days, Jessica tolerates me being the person who takes care of her until Ziggy comes home and cooks, then falls asleep on the couch while watching some period piece with fancy costumes and British accents and a snarky narrator.

Most nights .

Apparently on Wednesdays, she falls asleep before dinner. We’ll have to see if she does the same next Wednesday.

Fine by me. She didn’t think I was a creep for watching her sleep, and she was more grateful than she should’ve been that I could do something as simple as ordering dinner for us.

My bathroom gets finished.

And then I crutch into the kitchen Friday morning and find her eating mashed potatoes while looking at apartments on her phone.

Apartments.

“No house?” I ask.

She gets up from the table and pulls eggs, cheese and butter from the fridge. “If I like it, it needs too much work. If my mother likes it, it’s too expensive. If we both like it, the owner decides last minute to pull it off the market instead of taking my offer. So looking for something I can get month-to-month makes sense.”

“You can stay longer.” The words leave my mouth before I realize I’ve opened it.

She pauses with her arms full of ingredients, hope flashing over her face so briefly that I think I’m imagining it.

Wanting it.

“You’re nice. I’m nice. You’re gone most of the day. I still can’t get around easily for another few weeks. You don’t need to waste money on rent when this is working out. Unless you want a place of your own. I get it. Been there.”

She sets everything on the counter. “No, I don’t mind not being alone. I just—I don’t need to be in your hair if you’d rather be alone.”

“Can’t cook for myself,” I remind her. “Stick around. Save the rent money. You’ll find the right house for you and Tater Tot soon.”

She blinks at me.

Shit.

Fuck .

I just said that out loud.

“Tater Tot?”

My face gets hot. “What else do you call a baby fed exclusively by potatoes?”

Her lips part, and then she smiles.

She’s so goddamn pretty when she smiles.

She glows. Her eyes light up. Her cheeks take on a rosy hue. And those lips—fucking gorgeous.

Which is irrelevant.

She’s here until she finds a house of her own. I’m just helping out a fellow human being going through a rough patch.

“Tater Tot,” she repeats. She looks down at her belly and rubs it. “What do you think? Is that your name?”

She’s barely showing. The average person walking by her would have no idea she’s pregnant.

But I know.

I know, and she’s smiling as she moves about the kitchen again. “Well, I didn’t throw up, so that’s a good sign baby likes it.”

Baby likes it.

Jesus.

She’s really growing a whole-ass human inside of her. And she’s doing this on her own. No partner. Abandoned by her best friend too.

She’s amazing.

“You getting sick at work?” I ask .

“No, I think the worst of morning sickness has passed.”

“But not the potato cravings.”

“Potatoes are delicious and I won’t stand for potato slander, so be careful what you say next.”

It’s impossible to not smile back at her.

Even when Jessica trots in and scratches the floor like she’s flinging poop at me, I’m still smiling.

Ziggy tosses me an apple.

I sit at the kitchen table and tell her about the time Caden got a dog who chewed up all of his stuff.

She tells me about her former best friend helping her get over her fear of dogs and about a story one of her ship friends told her about something that happened onboard this week.

She also tells me turkey bacon is an abomination and it goes against everything she’s ever believed in to serve it to me, but she dishes me up a plate heaped with fluffy scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, fresh berries, and turkey bacon.

This morning routine has me completely certain that I don’t want her to go.

I like talking to her. I like eating what she cooks. I like watching her take care of my—her—our?—dog.

I like that she feels safe enough around me to talk about her former best friend.

Important to the grieving process.

Ask me how I know.

“You ever watch superhero movies?” I ask her while I eat.

“All of them,” she replies. “Usually late, which is when the ship would get them, but I caught up since I’ve been back home.”

“New one out this weekend. We should go.”

Ziggy jerks a look at me .

A delicate pink creeps up her cheeks, and I’m instantly hard as a rock.

Fuck?

Or thank fuck ?

I can’t decide.

That’s definitely going to depend on her answer.

I think the blush is a good sign.

Isn’t it?

Wait.

Is it bad to date your roommate?

Would it be a date?

Dumbass, of course it would be a date , Caden chides me in my head.

Unless she doesn’t want it to be a date.

I can go to the movies with a friend.

How’s that any different from sitting in the living room and watching TV with her?

“That sounds fun,” she finally says.

Do not push dinner too. Do not push dinner too. Do not— “My favorite burger place is right by the IMAX.”

The pink is spreading in her cheeks. It’s splotchy, like it was the morning I met her at her hotel parking lot. “Does your favorite burger place serve good fries?”

“Define good fries .”

“Shoestring. Golden-brown. Not burnt at any edges. Maybe with ranch dressing. Maybe.”

“Walking on the wild side there.”

“I haven’t reliably kept anything but potatoes down in the last month.”

“You haven’t eaten anything but potatoes and a single rotisserie chicken in the last month.”

She grimaces. “The rotisserie chicken is why I don’t trust the new ranch dressing craving.”

I shouldn’t smile at that, but it’s difficult not to.

“You haven’t clarified if these French fries are shoestring or not,” she says.

“What’s the size between shoestring and wedges?”

“Steak fries or standard cut?”

“What’s the normal size fries that’s one size up from shoestring?”

“Standard cut. Steak fries are one size bigger, then wedges are the biggest.”

“They’re standard fries then.”

“Battered?”

“Battered?” I repeat. “What’s battered fries ?”

“The kind with the extra delicious outside because they’ve been tossed in batter.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She gasps.

She actually gasps.

“Is this like when you pretended you didn’t know who Vitamin Man was?” she asks.

This?

This feels good. Ziggy and I are developing a history. We have inside jokes. We have stories. We’re friends.

She needs new friends.

“No, I don’t know what battered fries are. But if you don’t like the fries, I’ll stop at Cod Pieces just for you. Actually, I’ll call a buddy. He has zero shame. He’ll just bring Cod Pieces fries for you. And his fiancée. She’s nice. You’ll like her.”

Two slow blinks are my answer.

Nice, inviting her on a double date with people she’s never met , Caden says. Smooth move. She KNOWS it’s a date now .

I blink back .

She purses her lips together, but I see the wobble in the corner.

She’s holding in a smile.

“You know Cod Pieces?” I ask her.

“Fast-food fish.”

“Shoestring fries.”

“They do make good shoestring fries.”

“Good. It’s a date. I’ll text Fletcher.”

Her brows knit together. “Fletcher?”

“My buddy. He’ll bring the fries. I’d do it myself, but I can’t carry them.” I tap my crutches. “Not as fast anyway. Also, I don’t care if he gets banned for life from my favorite burger joint for bringing in contraband fries. Better to let him take the risk.”

She’s still frowning at me. “That’s…an interesting friend.”

“Teammate. I didn’t pick him. But his fiancée is top-notch. You’ll like her.” I’m pushing too hard.

And I don’t even know what I want.

To take Ziggy on a date?

Yes.

But to what end?

Where would this even go?

I think she likes me.

I definitely like her.

And she’s having a baby and making a life for herself. Looking for places to live that aren’t here with me.

As she should.

We’ve only really gotten to know each other for under a week.

“Everybody needs friends,” I say in the awkward silence.

She shakes her head, then smiles at me. “Yes. Yes. That sounds lovely. Thank you. Ignore me. I just—still feel cautious about friends. Worried. Paranoid. It’s me. I’m working on it. But that’s very thoughtful. I do need to meet more people. Make new friends. Thank you. Very sweet. Kind. Fun. Is it okay with you if I take Jessica to my parents’ house again today? My mom loves her and gets so distracted that she forgets to try to buy too many things for the baby.”

“Yeah. She farts at me less on the days she goes with you.”

Ziggy straightens. “ Oh . Oh. I forgot to tell you. It’s not you. Jessica. Her problem. It’s not you. She hates men in general.”

I stare at her.

Then at the dog, who scowls at me.

“For real?” I ask.

“I’m nearly positive. I started noticing a pattern a little bit ago. In any case, you’re definitely not the only person she doesn’t like. Remember how she reacted to the plumber?”

I stare at the dog again. “Did some fucker hurt you?”

She stares back in as if I’d tell you, you punk .

“Very likely,” Ziggy says. “She likes you more than most men. For whatever that’s worth.”

“Huh.”

She rises. “Time to go if you’re going to Grandma’s house, Jessica. Otherwise, I’ll be late for work.”

The dog stretches out her barrel body, yawns like she doesn’t care, snorts in my direction, then trots to the front door.

I rub my breastbone.

It’s not me.

The dog’s problem isn’t me .

Didn’t realize I needed to know that.

I snag Ziggy’s wrist as she walks past, and electricity shoots up my arm .

Her eyes flare as they meet mine.

I drop her hand. “Sorry. I—thank you. The dog— I felt like an asshole.”

She smiles at me. “You’re not an asshole. Most of the time.”

I’m in so much trouble.

This woman is making me feel alive in ways I haven’t even wanted to be for months. “I’ll get tickets.”

She blushes. Again. “Can’t wait.”

Me either.

Me fucking either.