Chapter Ten

“I mean, God, ” Lissa said, stopping in front of a huge display of bedsheets, “who knows the difference between a duvet and a comforter? ”

We were in Linens Etc., armed with Lissa’s mom’s gold card, the list of items that the university suggested for all incoming freshmen, and a letter from Lissa’s future roommate, a girl named Delia from Boca Raton, Florida. She’d already been in contact so that she and Lissa could color‑ coordinate their bed linens, discuss who should bring what in the way of televisions, microwaves, and wall hangings, and just to “break the ice” so that by August, when classes started, they’d already “be like sisters. ” If Lissa wasn’t already glum about starting college post‑ Adam, this letter‑ written on pink stationery in silver ink, and spewing forth glitter when she pulled it from the envelope‑ had pretty much done her in.

“A duvet, ” I told her, stopping to eye a stack of thick purple towels, “is a cover for a comforter, usually a down comforter. And a comforter is just a glorified quilt. ”

She crossed her eyes at me, sighed, and pushed some hair out of her face. Lately she’d just seemed cranky all the time, defeated, as if at the age of eighteen life already sucked beyond any hope of improvement.

“I’m supposed to get a comforter in a purple/pink hue, ” she said, reading off Delia’s letter. “And sheets to match. And a bed ruffle, whatever the hell that is. ”

“It goes around the base of the bed, ” I explained. “To cover the legs and provide a sort of color continuity, all the way to the floor. ”

She looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Color continuity? ” she asked.

“My mother bought a new bedroom suite a few years back, ” I said, taking the list out of her hand. “I got an entire education in thread count sheets and Egyptian cotton. ”

Lissa stopped the cart next to a display of plastic wastebas kets, picking up a lime green one with blue trim. “I should get this, ” she told me, turning it in her hands, “just because it will so clash with her predetermined scheme. In fact, I should pick the most butt‑ ugly furnishings as a complete protest against her assumption that I would just go along with whatever she said. ”

I glanced around: butt ugly was entirely possible at Linens Etc., which carried not only lime green trash cans but also leopard‑ patterned tissue holders, framed prints of kittens frolicking with puppies, and bath mats shaped like feet. “Lissa, ” I said gently, “maybe we shouldn’t do this today. ”

“We have to, ” she grumbled, grabbing a pack of sheets‑ the wrong size, and bright red‑ off a nearby shelf and tossing them into the cart. “I’m seeing Delia at orientation next week and I’m sure she’ll want a freaking update. ”

I picked up the red sheets and put them back on the shelf while she pouted around the toothbrush holders, completely un‑ enthused. “Lissa, is this really how you want to start college? With a totally shit attitude? ”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah, well that’s easy for you to say, Miss Going‑ across‑ the‑ Country‑ Free‑ and Clear‑ No‑ Problems. You’ll be out in sunny California, windsurfing and eating sushi while I’m stuck here in the same place I’ve always been, watching Adam date his way through the entire freshman class. ”

“Windsurfing and sushi? ” I said. “At the same time? ”

“You know what I mean! ” she snapped, and a woman pricing a stack of washcloths glanced over at us. Lissa lowered her voice and added, “I might not even go to school anyway. I might defer and join the Peace Corps and go to Africa and shave my head and dig latrines. ”

“Shave your head? ” I said, because, really, this was the most ludicrous part of the whole thing. “You? Do you have any idea how ugly most people’s bare heads are? They’ve got all kinds of bumps, Lissa. And you won’t know until it’s too late and you’re flat‑ out bald. ”

“You’re not even listening to me! ” she said. “It’s always been so easy for you, Remy. So gorgeous and confident and smart. No guy ever dumped you and left you shattered. ”

“That’s not true, ” I said in a level voice. “And you know it. ”

She paused at this, as our shared history caught up with her. Okay, so maybe I was known for having the upper hand in my relationships, but there was a reason for that. She didn’t know what happened that night at Albert’s, within shouting distance of her own bedroom window. But since then, I’d been stomped on my fair share. Even Jonathan had caught me unaware.

“I planned my whole future around Adam, ” she said now, quietly. “And now I have nothing. ”

“No, ” I told her, “now you just don’t have Adam. There’s a big difference, Lissa. You just can’t see it yet. ”

She harrumphed at this, yanking a cow‑ print Kleenex box cover off the shelf and adding it to the cart. “I can see that everyone else is doing exactly what they wanted with the rest of their lives. They’re all at the gate, pawing the dirt and ready to run, and I’ve already got a lame leg and am this close to being taken around back of the stable to be put out of my misery. ”

“Sweetie, ” I said, trying to be patient, “we’ve only been out of high school a month. This isn’t even the real world yet. It’s just in‑ between time. ”

“Well, I hate it here, ” she snapped, gesturing all around her, including not only Linens Etc. but the world itself, “in between or not. Give me high school any day. I’d go back in a second, if I could. ”

“It’s too early for nostalgia, ” I told her. “Really. ”

We walked along the main aisle toward the miniblind section, not talking. As she grumbled over curtains I walked over to the clearance section, where summer picnic ware was on special, one day only. There were plastic plates in all colors, and cutlery with clear handles, forks with metallic prongs. I picked up a set of tumblers decorated with pink flamingoes: definitely butt ugly.

But I was thinking of the yellow house, where the only dish‑ ware consisted of one ceramic plate, a few mismatched forks and knives, some gas‑ station freebie coffee mugs, and whatever paper goods Ted had managed to score from the damaged bin at Mayor’s Market. It was the only time I’d ever heard someone ask, “Can you grab me the spoon? ” as opposed to “a spoon, ” which at least connoted there was more than one. And here, on bargain special, was an entire plastic, blue‑ handled set of cutlery‑ a virtual plethora of flatware‑ for only $6. 99. I picked them up and put them in the cart without even thinking.

About ten seconds later, it hit me. What was I doing? Buying flatware for a guy? For a boyfriend? It was as if I, like my brother, had been suddenly brainwashed by aliens. What kind of girl purchases housewares for someone she has hardly been dating for a month? Psycho desperate‑ to‑ get‑ married‑ and‑ pop‑ out‑ babies types, that’s who, I told myself, shuddering at the thought. I threw the cutlery set back onto the table with such speed it crashed into a stack of dolphin‑ patterned plates, causing a commotion loud enough to distract Lissa from the reading lamps.

Calm down, I told myself, taking in a deep breath, then promptly spitting it out, since everything in Linens Etc. stank of scented candles.

“Remy? ” Lissa said. She was holding a green lamp. “You okay? ”

I nodded, and she went back to browsing. At least she was feeling better: the lamp did match the trash can.

I pushed the cart through hand towels, storage supplies, and halfway into candles‑ where the smell became a stench‑ all the while reminding myself that everything does not necessarily have a Greater Meaning. It was just a bargain set of plastic ware, for God’s sake, not a promise ring. This settled me somewhat, even as the more rational part of my mind reminded me that never, in the course of oh, say, fifteen relationships since junior high school, had I ever had the urge to buy a boyfriend anything more permanent than a Zip Coke. Even at birthdays and Christmas I kept to my basic gifts, stuff like shirts and CDs, things that would eventually go out of style. Not like plastic picnic ware, which would probably be around to greet the roaches after the final nuclear holocaust. Plus, if you really went deep into the meaning of gifts, dishes equaled food, food equaled sustenance, and sustenance equaled life, which meant that by giving even one plastic fork I was basically saying I wanted to take care of Dexter forever and ever, amen. Yikes.

On the way to the checkout, Lissa and I passed the clearance table again. She picked up a retro‑ looking alarm clock. “This is cute, ” she said. “And look at those plastic plates and silverware. Maybe I could use those for when we fix stuff in the room. ”

“Maybe, ” I said, shrugging and ignoring the table as if it was someone I’d dated.

“But what if I didn’t use it? ” she went on, in the voice I recognized as Lissa entering Prime Indecisive Mode. “I mean, it’s only seven bucks, right? And it’s cute. But I probably don’t have room for it, anyway. ”

“Probably not, ” I said, starting to push the cart again.

She didn’t move, the alarm clock in one hand, fingering the cute plastic pouch the cutlery came in. “It’s really cute, though, ” she said. “And it would be better than using takeout stuff all the time. But still, it’s a lot of silverware, I mean it’ll only be me and Delia…”

This time I didn’t say anything. All I could smell were those candles.

“… but maybe we’d have other people in sometimes, you know, for pizza or whatever? ” She sighed. “No, forget it, it’s just an impulse thing, I don’t need it. ”

I started to push the cart again, and she took a couple of steps. Two, to be exact.

“On the other hand, ” she said, then stopped talking. A sigh. Then, “No, forget it‑ ”

“God! ” I said, reaching behind me and grabbing the plastic pouch, stuffing it into the cart. “I’ll buy it. Let’s just go, okay? ”

She looked at me, wide‑ eyed. “Do you want it, though? Because I’m not really sure I’ll use it‑ ”

“Yes, ” I said loudly. “I want it. I need it. Let’s go. ”

“Well, okay, ” Lissa said, somewhat uncertainly. “If you really need it. ”

Later, when I dropped her off, I told her to make sure she took everything, even the plastic ware. But in typical fashion, she cleaned out every bag from my trunk except one. I promptly forgot about it, that is until a few nights later, when Dexter and I were unloading some groceries he’d bought for the yellow house‑ peanut butter, bread, orange juice, and Doritos‑ from my car. He grabbed all his bags, then was about to shut the trunk when he stopped and leaned over.

“What’s this? ” he asked, pulling out a white plastic shopping bag, knotted neatly at the top‑ I’d taught Lissa well‑ so that its contents wouldn’t spill.

“Nothing, ” I said quickly, trying to take it from him.

“Wait, wait, ” he said, holding it out of my reach. The peanut butter fell out of one of his other bags, rolling across the yard, but he ignored this, too intrigued by what I didn’t want him to see. “What is it? ”

“Something I bought for myself, ” I said curtly, grabbing for it again. No luck. He was too tall, and his arms too long.

“Is it a secret? ”

“Yes. ”

“Really? ”

“Yes. ”

He shook the bag slightly, listening to the sound it made. “Doesn’t sound secret, ” he decided.

“What does secret sound like? ” I asked. Idiot. “Give it here. ”

“Like tampons, ” he told me, shaking it again. “This doesn’t sound like tampons. ”

I glared at him, and he handed it over, as if now he didn’t want to find out. He walked across the grass to pick up the peanut butter, wiping it on his shirt‑ of course‑ and chucking it back into the bag.

“If you must know, ” I said, as if it was absolutely no big deal whatsoever, “it’s just this plastic ware I bought at Linens Etc. ”

He thought about this. “Plastic ware. ”

“Yes. It was on sale. ”

We stood there. From inside the yellow house, I could hear the TV, and someone laughing. Monkey was standing on the other side of the screen door, watching us, his tail going full speed.

“Plastic ware, ” he said slowly, “like knives and forks and spoons? ”

I brushed a bit of dirt off the back of my car‑ was that a scratch? ‑ and said casually, “Yeah, I guess. Just the basics, you know. ”

“Did you need plastic ware? ” he asked.

I shrugged.

“Because, ” he went on, and I fought the urge to squirm, “it’s so funny, because I need plastic ware. Badly. ”

“Can we go inside, please? ” I asked, slamming the trunk shut. “It’s hot out here. ”

He looked at the bag again, then at me. And then, slowly, the smile I knew and dreaded crept across his face. “You bought me plastic ware, ” he said. “Didn’t you? ’

“No, ” I growled, picking at my license plate.

“You did! ” he hooted, laughing out loud. “You bought me some forks. And knives. And spoons. Because‑ ”

“No, ” I said loudly.

“‑ you love me! ” He grinned, as if he’d solved the puzzler for all time, as I felt a flush creep across my face. Stupid Lissa. I could have killed her.

“It was on sale, ” I told him again, as if this was some kind of an excuse.

“You love me, ” he said simply, taking the bag and adding it to the others.

“Only seven bucks, ” I added, but he was already walking away, so sure of himself. “It was on clearance, for God’s sake. ”

“Love me, ” he called out over his shoulder, in a singsong voice. “You. Love. Me. ”

I stood there in the front yard, at the bottom of the stairs, feeling for the first time in a long while that things were completely out of my control. How had I let this happen? Years of CDs and sweaters, interchangeable gifts, and now one set of picnic ware and I totally lose the upper hand. It seemed impossible.

Dexter walked up the front steps to the door, Monkey bursting forth and bustling around, sniffing at the bags, until they both went inside and the door slammed shut behind them. Something told me, as I stood there, that I should just turn around, go back to my car, and drive home as fast as possible, then lock every door and window and hunker down to protect my dignity. Or my sanity. So many times it seemed like there were chances to stop things before they started. Or even stop them in midstream. But it was even worse when you knew at that very moment that there was still time to save yourself, and yet you couldn’t even budge.

The door swung open again, and there was Monkey, panting. Above him, dangling past the doorframe from the left, was one hand, fingers gripping a bright blue fork, wiggling it around suggestively, as if it was some kind of signal, spelling out messages in supersecret spy code. What was it saying? What did it mean? Did I even care anymore?

The fork kept wiggling, beckoning. Last chance, I thought.

I sighed out loud, and started up the steps.

There were certain ways to tell that my mother was getting close to finishing a novel. First, she’d start working at all hours, not just her set schedule of noon to four. Then I’d start waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of her typewriter, and look out my window to see the light spilling in long, slanting squares from her study onto the side yard. She’d also start talking to herself as she wrote, under her breath. It wasn’t loud enough to really make out what she was saying, but at times it sounded like there were two people in there, one dictating and one just rushing to get it down, one clackety‑ clacking line at a time. And finally, the most revealing sign of all, always a dead giveaway: when she hit her stride, and the words came so easily she had to fight to hold them back long enough to get them on the page, she always put on the Beatles, and they sang her to her epilogue.

I was on my way down for breakfast in the middle of July, rubbing my eyes, when I stopped at the top of the stairs and listened. Yep. Paul McCartney, his voice high, something from the early years.

The lizard room door opened behind me and Chris came out, in his work uniform, carrying a few empty jars of baby food, one of the daily diet staples of the lizards. He cocked his head to the side, shutting the door behind him. “Sounds like that album with the Norwegian song on it, ” he said.

“Nope, ” I told him, starting down the stairs. “It’s that one where they’re all in the window, looking down. ”

He nodded, and fell into step behind me. When we reached the kitchen we saw the bead curtain was drawn across the entryway to the study, and beyond it Paul’s voice had given way to John Lennon’s. I walked over and peered through the curtain, impressed by the stack of paper on the desk beside her and one burned‑ out candle. She had to have had two hundred pages, at least. When she was rolling, nothing could stop her.

I turned back into the kitchen and pushed aside two empty cans of Ensure‑ I was determined not to clean up after Don, although I was tested daily‑ before fixing myself a bowl of oatmeal with bananas and a big cup of coffee. Then I sat down, my back to the naked woman on the wall, and pulled the family calendar‑ a freebie from Don Davis Motors, featuring Don himself smiling in front of a shiny 4Runner‑ off the wall.

It was July 15. In two months, give or take a few days, I would be packing up my two suitcases and my laptop and heading to the airport, and seven hours later I would arrive in California to begin my life at Stanford. There was so little written between now and then; even the day I left was hardly marked, except for a simple circle in lipstick I’d done myself, as if it was a big deal only to me.

“Oh, man, ” Chris grumbled from in front of the fridge. I glanced over to see him holding an almost empty bag of bread: all that was left were the two end pieces, which I suppose have a real name, but we’d always called the butts. “He did it again. ”

Don had lived alone so long that he was having trouble grasping the concept that other people actually came after him and, sometimes, used the same products he did. He thought nothing of finishing off the last of the orange juice, then sticking the empty carton back in the fridge, or taking the last of the usable bread and leaving the butts for Chris to deal with. Even though Chris and I had both asked him, oh so politely, to write things down when he used them up (we kept a list on the fridge, labeled GROCERIES NEEDED) he either forgot or just didn’t care.

Chris shut the fridge door a bit enthusiastically, shaking the rows of Ensures that were stacked there. They clanked against one another, and one toppled off, falling back between the fridge and the wall with a thunk.

“I hate those things, ” he grumbled, stuffing the bread butts into the toaster oven. “And, God, I just bought this bag. If he’s sucking down those Ensures, why does he need to eat my bread anyway? Isn’t that a complete meal in itself? ”

“I thought so, ” I said.

“I mean, ” he went on as the music picked up in the next room, all yeah‑ yeah‑ yeahs, “all I’m asking for is a little consideration, you know? Some give‑ and‑ take. It’s not too much to ask, I don’t think. Is it? ”

I shrugged, looking again at that lipstick circle. Not my problem.

“Remy? ” My mother’s voice drifted from the study, the typewriter noises stopping for a second. “Can you do me a favor? ”

“Sure, ” I called back to her.

“Bring me some coffee? ” The typewriter started up again. “With milk? ”

I got up and poured a cup almost to the top, then dumped in skim milk until it reached the rim: one of the only things that we had in common, completely, was taking our coffee the same way. I walked over to the entryway to the study, balancing her cup and mine, and pushed aside the curtain.

The room smelled like vanilla, and I had to move a row of mugs‑ most half full, their rims stained with the pearly pink that was her “house lipstick”‑ aside to make room. One of the cats was curled up on the chair next to her, and hissed at me halfheartedly as I slid it out of the way so I could sit down. Next to me was a stack of typewritten pages, neatly aligned. I was right: she was really cooking. The number of the page on the top was 207.

I knew better than to start talking until she was done with whatever sentence, or scene, she was in the midst of writing. So I pulled page 207 off the stack and skimmed it, folding my legs beneath me.

“Luc, ” Melanie called to the other room in the suite, but there was only silence beyond. “Please. ”

No answer from the man who just hours earlier had kissed her under a shower of rose petals, claiming her in front of all Paris society as the one he loved. How could a marriage bed be so cold? Melanie shivered in her lace gown, feeling tears fill her eyes as she caught sight of her bouquet, white roses and purple lilies, lying where the maid had left it on the bedside table. It was still so fresh and new, and Melanie could remember pressing her face to the full blossoms, breathing them in as the realization that she was now Mrs. Luc Perethel washed over her. Once, the words had seemed magical, like a spell cast in a fairy tale. But now, with the city lit up through her open window, Melanie ached not for her new husband but for another man, in another city. Oh, Brock, she thought. She didn’t dare to say the words aloud for fear that they would be carried away, soaring out of her reach, to find the only one true love she’d ever had.

Uh‑ oh. I glanced up at my mother, who was still typing away, her brow furrowed, lips moving. Now, I knew that what she wrote was pure fiction. After all, this was a woman who’d been constructing stories about the lives and loves of the rich while we were clipping coupons and having our phone cut off on a regular basis. And it wasn’t like Luc, the cold new husband, had a fondness for Ensures or anything. I hoped.

“Oh, thank you! ” My mother, spying her fresh cup of coffee, stretched her fingers and picked it up, taking a sip. She had her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, no makeup, and was wearing pajamas and the leopard‑ print bedroom slippers I’d gotten her for her last birthday. She yawned, leaning back in her chair, and said, “I’ve been going all night. What time is it? ”

I glanced at the clock in the kitchen, visible through the curtain, which was still swaying slightly. “Eight‑ fifteen. ”

She sighed, putting the cup to her lips again. I glanced over at the sheet in the typewriter, trying to make out what happened next, but all I could see was several lines of dialogue. Apparently, Luc did have something to say after all.

“So it’s going well, ” I said, nodding toward the stack next to my elbow.

She flopped her hand at me in a so‑ so kind of way. “Oh, well, it’s smack in the middle, and you know there’s always a dull spot. But last night I was just about asleep when I had this inspiration. It had to do with swans. ”

I waited. But that appeared to be all she would tell me, as now she’d grabbed a nail file from the mug stuffed with pens and pencils and was at work on a pinkie, shaping it deftly.

“Swans, ” I said finally.

She chucked the nail file down on the desk and stretched her arms over her head. “You know, ” she said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, “they’re dreadful creatures, really. Beautiful to look at but mean. The Romans used them instead of guard dogs. ”

I nodded, drinking my coffee. Across the room, I could hear the cat snoring.

“So, ” she went on, “it got me thinking about what cost beauty. Or for that matter, what cost anything? Would you trade love for beauty? Or happiness for beauty? Could a gorgeous person with a mean streak be a worthy trade? And if you did make the trade, decide you’d take that beautiful swan and hope it wouldn’t turn on you, what would you do if it did? ”

These were rhetorical questions. I thought.

“I just couldn’t stop thinking about it, ” she said, shaking her head. “And then I couldn’t sleep, either. I think it’s that ridiculous tapestry Don insisted we hang on the wall. I can’t relax looking at all these carefully stitched depictions of military battles and people being crucified. ”

“It is a little much, ” I agreed. Every time I went into her room to get anything I found myself somewhat transfixed by it. It was hard to tear your eyes away from the panel that illustrated the beheading of John the Baptist.

“So I came down here, ” she said, “thinking I’d just tinker, and now it’s eight in the A. M. and I’m still not sure what the answer is. How can that be? ”

The music faded out now, and it was very, very quiet. I was sure I could feel my ulcer stirring, but it might have just been the coffee. My mother was always very dramatic when she was writing. At least once during every novel she’d fling herself into the kitchen, near tears, hysterical that she’d lost any talent she ever possessed, the book was a quagmire, a disaster, the end of her career, and Chris and I would just sit there, silent, until she wailed out again. After a few minutes, or hours, or‑ in bad times‑ days, she’d be right back in the study, curtain closed, typing away. And when the books arrived months later, smelling so new with their smooth, not‑ yet‑ cracked spines, she always forgot about the breakdowns that played a part in creating them. If I reminded her, she said writing novels was like childbirth: if you truly remembered how awful it got, you’d never do it again.

“You’ll work it out, ” I said now. “You always do. ”

She bit her lip and glanced down at the page in the typewriter, then out the window. The sunlight was spilling in, and I realized she did look tired, even sad, in a way I hadn’t noticed before. “I know, ” she said, as if only agreeing with me to move past this. And then, after a quiet second or two, she switched gears completely and asked, “How’s Dexter? ”

“Okay, I guess, ” I said.

“I like him very much. ” She yawned, then smiled at me apologetically. “He’s not like the other boys you’ve dated. ”

“I had a no‑ musician rule, ” I explained.

She sighed. “So did I. ”

I laughed, and she did too. Then I said, “Okay, so why’d you break it? ”

“Oh, the reason anyone does anything, ” she said. “I was in love. ”

I heard the front door swing shut as Chris left for work, yelling a good‑ bye behind him. We watched as he walked down the driveway to his car, a Mountain Dew‑ his version of coffee‑ in one hand.

“I think he’s going to buy her a ring, if he hasn’t already, ” my mother said thoughtfully. “I just have this feeling. ”

Chris started the engine, then pulled out into neighborhood traffic, turning around slowly in the cul‑ de‑ sac. He was swigging the Mountain Dew as he drove past.

“Well, ” I said, “you would know. ”

She finished her coffee, then reached over and brushed her fingers over my cheek, tracing the shape of my face. A dramatic gesture, like most of hers, but it was comforting in that she’d done it for as long as I could remember. Her fingers, as always, were cool.

“Oh, my Remy, ” she said. “Only you understand. ”

I knew what she meant, and yet I didn’t. I was a lot like my mother, but not in ways I was proud of. If my parents had stayed together and grown to be old hippies singing protest songs as they washed dishes after dinner, maybe I would have been different. If I’d ever seen what love really could do, or was, maybe I’d have believed in it from the start. But too much of my life had been spent watching marriages come together and then fall apart. So I understood, yes. But sometimes, like lately, I wished that I didn’t, not at all.

“But it’s filling up. ”

“Filling up but not full. ” I took the Tide from him and unscrewed the cap. “It has to be full. ”

“I always put the soap in right when it starts, ” he said.

“Which is why, ” I said, pouring a bit of detergent in as the water level rose, “your clothes don’t ever get truly clean. There is a chemistry involved here, Dexter. ”

“It’s laundry, ” he said.

“Exactly. ”

He sighed. “You know, ” he said as I poured in the rest of the Tide and eased the lid shut, “the rest of the guys are even worse. They hardly ever even do laundry, much less separate their colors and brights. ”

“Colors and whites, ” I corrected him. “Colors and brights go together. ”

“Are you this anal about everything? ”

“Do you want everything to be pink again? ”

That shut him up. Our little laundry lesson this evening had been precipitated by his throwing a new red shirt into the hot water cycle, which left everything he’d been wearing lately with a rosy tinge. Since the plastic ware incident I’d been doing all I could to be the very opposite of domestic, but I couldn’t abide a pink boyfriend. So here I was, in the laundry room of the yellow house, a place I normally steadfastedly avoided because of the enormous pile of unwashed underwear, socks, and various T‑ shirts that dwelled there, often spilling out into the hallway. Which was not surprising, considering that hardly anyone ever bought detergent. Just last week, John Miller had apparently washed all his jeans in Palmolive.

Once the cycle started, I stepped carefully over a pile of nasty socks, back out into the hallway, and eased the door shut as far as it would go. Then I followed Dexter into the kitchen, where Lucas was sitting at the table, eating a tangerine.

“You doing laundry? ” he asked Dexter.

“Yep. ”

“Again? ”

Dexter nodded. “I’m bleaching out my whites. ”

Lucas looked impressed. But then, he was wearing a shirt with a ketchup stain on the collar. “Wow, ” he said. “That’s‑ ”

And then, suddenly, it was dark. Totally dark. All the lights cut off, the refrigerator whirred to a stop, the swishing of the washing machine went quiet. The only brightness anywhere left that I could see was the porch light of the house next door.

“Hey! ” John Miller yelled from the living room, where he was absorbed, as usual about this time each night, in Wheel of Fortune. “I was just about to solve the puzzle, man! ”

“Shut up, ” Lucas said, standing and walking over to the light switch, which he flipped on and off a couple of times, click‑ clack‑ click. “Must be a blown fuse. ”

“It’s the whole house, ” Dexter said.

“So? ”

“So, if it was just one fuse something would still be on. ” Dexter picked up a lighter from the middle of the table and flicked it. “Must be a power outage. Probably the whole grid’s out. ”

“Oh. ” Lucas sat back down. In the living room, there was a crash as John Miller attemped to navigate the darkness.

This wasn’t my problem. Surely it wasn’t. Still, I couldn’t help but point out, “Um, the lights are on next door. ”

Dexter leaned back in his chair, glancing out the window to verify this. “So they are, ” he said. “In‑ teresting. ”

Lucas started to peel another tangerine as John Miller appeared in the kitchen doorway. His pale skin seemed even brighter in the dark. “Lights are out, ” he said, as if we were blind and needed to be told this.

“Thank you, Einstein, ” Lucas grumbled.

“It’s a circuitry problem, ” Dexter decided. “Bad wiring, maybe. ”

John Miller came into the room and flopped down on the couch. For a minute, no one said anything, and it became clear to me that this, to them, wasn’t really that big a problem. Lights, schmights.

“Did you not pay your bill? ” I asked Dexter, finally.

“Bill? ” he repeated.

“The power bill. ”

Silence. Then, from Lucas, “Oh, man. The freaking power bill. ”

“But we paid that, ” John Miller said. “It was right there on the counter, I saw it yesterday. ”

Dexter looked at him. “You saw it, or we paid it? ”

“Both? ” John Miller said, and Lucas sighed, impatiently.

“Where was it? ” I asked John Miller, standing up. Someone had to do something, clearly. “Which counter? ”

“There, ” he said, pointing, but it was dark and I couldn’t see where. “In that drawer where we keep the important stuff. ”

Dexter picked up a lighter and lit a candle, then turned to the drawer and began to dig around, sorting through what, to the guys, was deemed Important. Apparently, this included soy sauce packets, a plastic hula girl toy, and matchbooks from what looked like every convenience store and bar in town.

Oh, and a few pieces of paper, one of which Dexter seized and held aloft. “Is this it? ”

I took it from him, squinting down at the writing. “No, ” I said, slowly, “this is a notice saying if you didn’t pay your bill by‑ let’s see‑ yesterday, they were going to cut the power off. ”

“Wow, ” John Miller said. “How did that slip past us? ”

I turned it over: stuck to the back was a set of pizza coupons with one ripped off, all of those left still a little greasy. “No idea, ” I said.

“Yesterday, ” Lucas said thoughtfully. “Wow, so they gave us, like, a half day over that. That’s mighty generous of them. ”

I just looked at him.

“Okay, ” Dexter said cheerfully, “so whose job was it to pay the power bill? ”

Another silence. Then John Miller said, “Ted? ”

“Ted, ” Lucas echoed.

“Ted, ” Dexter said, reaching over to the phone and yanking it off the hook. He dialed a number, then sat there, drumming his fingers on the table. “Hi, hey, Ted. Dexter. Guess where I am? ” He listened for a second. “Nope. The dark. I’m in the dark. Weren’t you supposed to pay the power bill? ”

I could hear Ted saying something, talking fast.

“I was about to solve the puzzle! ” John Miller yelled. “I only needed an L or a V. ”

“Nobody cares, ” Lucas told him.

Dexter continued to listen to Ted, who apparently had not taken a breath yet, making only hmm‑ hmm noises now and then. Finally he said, “Okay then! ” and hung up the phone.

“So? ” Lucas said.

“So, ” Dexter told us, “Ted has it under control. ”

“Meaning? ” I asked.

“Meaning that he’s royally pissed, because, apparently, I was supposed to pay the power bill. ” Then he smiled. “So! Who wants to tell ghost stories? ”

“Dexter, honestly, ” I said. This kind of irresponsibility made my ulcer ache, but apparently Lucas and John Miller were used to it. Neither one of them seemed particularly fazed, or even surprised.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, ” he said. “Ted’s got the money, he’s going to call them and see what he can do about getting it on tonight or early tomorrow. ”

“Good for Ted, ” Lucas said. “But what about you? ”

“Me? ” Dexter seemed surprised. “What about me? ”

“He means, ” I said, “that you should do something nice for the house by way of apology for this. ”

“Exactly, ” Lucas said. “Listen to Remy. ”

Dexter looked at me. “Honey, you’re not helping. ”

“We’re in the dark! ” John Miller said. “And it’s your fault, Dexter. ”

“Okay, okay, ” Dexter said. “Fine. I’ll do something for the house. I’ll‑ ”

“Clean the bathroom? ” Lucas said.

“No, ” Dexter said flatly.

“Do a load of my laundry? ”

“No. ”

Finally, John Miller said, “Buy beer? ”

Everyone waited.

“Yes, ” Dexter said. “Yes! I will buy beer. Here. ” He reached into his pocket and came up with a crumpled bill, which he held up for all of us to see. “Twenty bucks. Of my hard‑ earned money. For you. ”

Lucas swiped it off the table, fast, as if expecting Dexter to change his mind. “Wonderful. Let’s go. ”

“I’ll drive, ” said John Miller, jumping to his feet. He and Lucas left the kitchen, arguing about where the keys were. Then the screen door slammed, and we were alone.

Dexter reached over the kitchen counter and found another candle, then lit it and put it on the table as I slid into the chair opposite him. “Romantic, ” I told him.

“Of course, ” he said. “I planned all of this, just to get you alone in a dark house in the candlelight. ”

“Chee‑ sy, ” I said.

He smiled. “I try. ”

We sat there for a second, in the quiet. I could see him watching me, and after a second I pushed out my chair and walked around the table to him, sliding into his lap. “If you were my roommate and pulled this kind of crap, ” I said as he brushed my hair off my shoulder, “I’d kill you. ”

“You’d learn to love it. ”

“I doubt that. ”

“I think, ” he said, “that you are actually, secretly attracted to all the parts of my personality that you claim to abhor. ”

I looked at him. “I don’t think so. ”

“Then what is it? ”

“What is what? ”

“What is it, ” he said, “that makes you like me? ”

“Dexter. ”

“No, really. ” He pulled me back against him, so my head was next to his, his hands locked around my waist. In front of us the candle was flickering, sending uneven shadows across the far wall. “Tell me. ”

“No, ” I said, adding, “it’s too weird. ”

“It is not. Look. I’ll tell you what I like about you. ”

I groaned.

“Well, obviously, you’re beautiful, ” he said, ignoring this. “And that, I have to admit, was what first got my attention at the dealership that day. But then, I must say, it’s your confidence that really did me in. You know, so many girls are always insecure, wondering if they’re fat, or if you really like them, but not you. Man. You acted like you couldn’t have given less of a shit whether I talked to you or not. ”

“Acted? ” I said.

“See? ” I could feel him grinning. “That’s what I mean. ”

“So you’re attracted to the fact that I’m a bitch? ”

“No, no. That’s not it. ” He shifted his weight. “What I liked was that it was a challenge. To get past that, to wriggle through. Most people are easy to figure out. But a girl like you, Remy, has layers. What you see is so far from what you get. You may come across hard, but down deep, you’re a big softie. ”

“What? ” I said. Honestly, I was offended. “I am not soft. ”

“You bought me plastic ware. ”

“It was on sale! ” I yelled. “God! ”

“You’re really nice to my dog. ”

I sighed.

“And, ” he continued, “not only did you volunteer to come over here and teach me how to properly separate my colors from brights‑ ”

“Colors from whites. ”

“‑ but you also stepped up to help solve our power bill problem and smooth over the differences with the guys. Face it, Remy. You’re sweet. ”

“Shut up, ” I grumbled.

“Why is that a bad thing? ” he asked.

“It’s not, ” I said. “It’s just not true. ” And it wasn’t. I’d been called a lot of things in my life, but sweet had never been one of them. It made me feel strangely unnerved, as if he’d discovered a deep secret I hadn’t even known I was keeping.

“Okay, ” he said. “Now you. ”

“Now me what? ”

“Now, you tell me why you like me. ”

“Who says I do? ”

“Remy, ” he said sternly. “Don’t make me call you sweet again. ”

“Fine, fine. ” I sat up and leaned forward, stalling by pulling the candle over to the edge of the table. Talk about losing my edge: this was what I’d become. True confessions by candlelight. “Well, ” I said finally, knowing he was waiting, “you make me laugh. ”

He nodded. “And? ”

“You’re pretty good‑ looking. ”

“ Pretty good‑ looking? I called you beautiful. ”

“You want to be beautiful? ” I asked him.

“Are you saying I’m not? ”

I looked at the ceiling, shaking my head.

“I’m kidding, I’ll stop. God, relax, would you? I’m not asking you to recite the Declaration of Independence at gunpoint. ”

“I wish, ” I said, and he laughed, loud enough to blow out the candle on the table, leaving us again in total darkness.

“Okay, ” he said as I turned back to face him, sliding my arms around his neck. “You don’t have to say it out loud. I already know why you like me. ”

“You do, huh? ”

“Yep. ”

He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. “So, ” I said. “Tell me. ”

“It’s an animal attraction, ” he said simply. “Totally chemical. ”

“Hmm, ” I said. “You could be right. ”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway, why you like me. ”

“No? ”

“Nope. ” His hands were in my hair now, and I was leaning in, not able to totally make out his face, but his voice was clear, close to my ear. “Just that you do. ”