Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            “What?”

            “I think I left my keys in the cemetery.” I groan. “Shit, the super leaves at seven.” Jesus, what’s wrong with this day? I bite my lower lip, rifling through options. I could sleep on Rocío’s couch and go pick up my keys first thing in the morning. Of course, I’m not sure where Rocío is, or whether she’ll come to the door. The fact that my phone is at 4 percent does not—

            I startle when Levi starts the truck again. “Oh, thanks, but there’s no need to go back to the cemetery. I wouldn’t know how to get in, and—”

            “I’m not taking you to the cemetery.” He’s not looking at me. “Fasten your seat belt.”

            “What?”

            “Fasten your seat belt,” he repeats.

            I do, confused. “Where are we going?”

            “Home.”

            “Whose home?”

            “My home.”

            My jaw drops. I must have misheard. “What?”

            “You need a place to stay, no?”

            “Yeah, but—Rocío’s couch. Or I’ll call a locksmith. I can’t come to your house.”

            “Why?”

            “Because,” I say, sounding like a shrill twelve-year-old. Why is he being so nice all of a sudden? Does he feel guilty for not telling me about the NASA mess? Well, he should. But I’d rather sleep under a bridge and eat plankton than go to his place and see his perfect family life. Nothing personal, but the envy would gut me. And I can’t meet his wife smelling like dirty socks and graveyard. Who knows what Levi already told her about me? “You probably have plans for the evening.”

            “I don’t.”

            “And I’d put you out.”

            “You wouldn’t.”

            “Plus, you hate me.”

            He briefly closes his eyes in exasperation, which worries me. He’s driving, after all. “Is there any nonimaginary reason you don’t want to stay at my place, Bee?” he asks with a sigh.

            “I . . . It’s very nice of you to offer, but I don’t feel comfortable.”

            That gets through to him. His hands tighten on the wheel and he says calmly, “If you don’t feel safe around me, I absolutely respect that. I’ll drive you back to your place. But I’m not going to leave until I’m sure that you have a secure place to—”

            “What? No. I feel safe around you.” As I say it, I realize how true it is, and how rare for me. There’s often a constant undercurrent of threat when I’m alone with men I don’t know very well. The other night Guy came by my office to chat, and even though he’s never been anything but nice, I couldn’t stop glancing at the door. But Levi’s different, which is odd, especially considering that our interactions have always been antagonistic. And especially considering that he’s built like a Victorian mansion. “It’s not that.”

            “Then . . . ?”

            I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the headrest. There’s no way I’m going to be able to avoid this, is there? Might as well lean in to the clusterfuck.

            “Then, thank you,” I say, trying not to sound as dejected as I feel. “I’d love to stay with you tonight, if it’s not too much trouble.”



* * *



            • • •

            THE SECOND I see Levi’s house I want to burn it down with a flamethrower. Because it’s perfect.

            To be fair, it’s a totally normal house. But it perfectly matches my ideal, which, to be fair again, is not particularly lofty. My lifelong dream is a pretty brick home in the suburbs, a family with two point five children, and a yard to grow butterfly-friendly plants. I’m pretty sure a psychoanalyst would say that it has to do with the nomadic lifestyle of my formative years. I’m a stability slut, what can I say?