Ugly Love: A Novel(14)

I give up on the living room and walk into the kitchen. I open the refrigerator, but there’s hardly anything in it. There are a few takeout boxes. Condiments. Orange juice. It resembles Corbin’s refrigerator—empty and sad and so very bachelor.

I open a cabinet, grab a cup, then pour myself some juice. I drink it and rinse the cup out in the sink. There are a few other dishes piled up on the left side of the sink, so I begin washing those, too. Even his plates and cups lack personality—plain and white and sad.

I have the sudden urge to take my credit card straight to the store and buy him some curtains, a new set of vibrant dishes, a few paintings, and maybe even a plant or two. This place needs a little life.

I wonder what his story is. I don’t think he has a girlfriend. I’ve yet to see him with one up to this point, and the apartment and obvious lack of a female’s touch make it a likely assumption. I don’t think a girl could walk into this apartment without decorating it at least a little bit before she left, so I’m assuming girls just never walk into this apartment.

It makes me wonder about Corbin, too. All our years growing up together, he’s never been open about his relationships, but I’m pretty sure that’s because he’s never been in a relationship. Every time I’ve ever been introduced to a girl in his past, she never seems to make it through an entire week with him. I don’t know if that’s because he doesn’t like keeping someone around or if it’s a sign that he’s too difficult to be around. I’m sure it’s the former, based on the number of random phone calls he receives from women.

Considering his abundance of one-night stands and lack of commitment, it confuses me how he could be so protective of me growing up. I guess he just knew himself too well. He didn’t want me dating guys like him.

I wonder if Miles is a guy like Corbin.

“Are you washing my dishes?”

His voice catches me completely off guard, making me jump in my skin. I spin around and catch sight of a looming Miles, almost dropping the glass in my hands in the process. It slips, but I somehow manage to catch it before it crashes to the floor. I take a calming breath and set it down gently in the sink.

“Finished my homework,” I say, swallowing the thickness that just swelled in my throat. I look at the dishes that are now in the strainer. “They were dirty.”

He smiles.

I think.

Just as soon as his lips start to curl up, they mash back into a straight line. False alarm.

“Everyone’s gone,” Miles says, giving me the all clear to vacate his premises. He notices the orange juice still out on the counter, so he picks it up and puts it back in the refrigerator.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I was thirsty.”

He turns to face me and leans his shoulder into the refrigerator, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t care if you drink my juice, Tate.”

Oh, wow.

That was an oddly sexy sentence. So was his presence in delivering it.

Still no smile, though. Jesus Christ, this man. Does he not realize that facial expressions are supposed to accompany speech?

I don’t want him to see my disappointment, so I turn back toward the sink. I use the sprayer to wash the remaining suds down the drain. I find it quite fitting, considering the weird vibes floating around his kitchen. “How long have you lived here?” I ask, attempting to alleviate the awkward silence as I turn and face him again.

“Four years.”

I don’t know why I laugh, but I do. He raises an eyebrow, confused about why his answer caused me to laugh.

“It’s just that your apartment . . .” I glance toward the living room, then back to him. “It’s kind of bland. I thought maybe you just moved in and haven’t had a chance to decorate.”

I didn’t mean for that to come out like an insult, but that’s exactly how it sounded. I’m just trying to make conversation, but I think I’m only making this awkwardness worse.

His eyes move slowly around his apartment as he processes my comment. I wish I could take it back, but I don’t even try. I’d probably just make it worse.

“I work a lot,” he says. “I never have company, so I guess it just hasn’t been a priority.”

I want to ask him why he never has company, but certain questions seem off limits to him. “Speaking of company, what’s up with Dillon?”

Miles shrugs his shoulders, leaning his back completely against the refrigerator. “Dillon’s an asshole who has no respect for his wife,” he says flatly. He turns around completely and walks out of the kitchen, heading toward his bedroom. He pushes his bedroom door closed but leaves it open just enough so that I can still hear him speak. “Thought I’d warn you before you fell for his act.”

“I don’t fall for acts,” I say. “Especially acts like Dillon’s.”

“Good,” he says.

Good? Ha. Miles doesn’t want me to like Dillon. I love that Miles doesn’t want me to like Dillon.

“Corbin wouldn’t like it if you started something up with him. He hates Dillon.”

Oh. He doesn’t want me to like Dillon for Corbin’s sake. Why did that just disappoint me?

He walks back out of his bedroom, and he’s no longer in his jeans and T-shirt. He’s in a familiar pair of slacks and a crisp, white shirt, unbuttoned and open.