Overseas by Beatriz Williams Page A

meaningfully, as we walked past the desk.
    I pressed the elevator call button. The doors opened at once and we stepped inside. “Which floor?” asked Julian.
    “Seven.”
    He reached forward and pressed the button. “So,” he observed, as the doors closed, “Joey looked surprised.”
    “I don’t exactly bring home a lot of men.”
    “Really?”
    “None, in fact,” I admitted. “I kind of went off dating after college.”
    “Oh. And why was that?”
    “Too many… what was that word you used?
Rotters
.”
    The doors opened and I led him out of the elevator and down the hall to my apartment door. “We’ll see if Brooke is in,” I said darkly, as I fit my key into the door and opened it. “Sorry. It’s not exactly what you’re used to.”
    “It’s fine,” he said.
    “You haven’t even looked inside.”
    “Well, go on in, then,” he urged. “I’m right behind you.”
    I crossed the threshold, holding my breath, hoping Brooke was running true to form. “Brooke?” I called out. No answer. Thank God.
    “She’s still out,” I told Julian, turning on the entrance lamp. “That little treat will have to wait until later. So, this is it. Typical Manhattan bachelorette pad. Living room, kitchen area, two bedrooms down the hall. Brooke has the master; it’s her apartment. Her parents’ apartment, I mean. They bought it as her graduation present. I pay rent to her.”
    He smiled tolerantly at my babbling and walked into the living room, filling the space with his dignity. “And how did you find such a cozy arrangement?”
    “Craigslist. Sit down. Can I get you something? Water? Coffee? I have one of those French press thingies; it makes a pretty good cup.”
    “Coffee, then. But let me help you,” he said, and followed me into the tiny kitchen area.
    “Oh, that’s not necessary,” I protested. The sink was still full of Brooke’s breakfast dishes. Eggs, from the look of the pan. She hadn’t even soaked it, and the remains had dried into an enamel-like hardness. “Sorry about the mess,” I said, turning on the water and filling the sink. “I leave way before my roommate does, and I never know what’s going to greet me when I come in.”
    “Darling,” he said, “you don’t need to apologize for everything.”
    “Do I? Apologize?” My ears tingled with delight.
Darling
again.
    “You do. Now where’s this coffee press of yours?”
    “Right here,” I said, reaching for it.
    “No, I’ll get it. Just tell me what to do.”
    He made the coffee and I did the dishes, laughing and getting in each other’s way, I in my gown and he in his tuxedo, like some sort of bizarre domestic comedy, and somehow the stiffness between us dissolved into familiarity. “So talk,” I said, when we were finally on the sofa, coffee cups in hand. I slipped off my shoes and tucked my feet under my dress.
    “About what?” he asked, taking a cautious drink of the coffee. An expression of surprised pleasure crossed his face.
    “You see? It’s not bad,” I said proudly. “A housewarming gift from my brother.”
    “Tell me about your brother.”
    “Kyle? Well, he lives back in Wisconsin. He’s still in college, senior year. He’s a great guy. Very into baseball. He’s majoring in accounting.”
    “You can read
accounting
here?” He laughed.
    “Sure you can. We like to take the arts out of liberal arts, here in America.”
    “Are you close? You and your brother?”
    I thought about that for a second. “About average. I mean, I don’t spill my guts to him, but I know he’d be there if I needed him. We e-mail a lot. He keeps hoping I’ll run into some Yankees hotshot and get an autograph for him.”
    He smiled, fingered his coffee cup. “And your parents?”
    “The usual.” I shrugged. “I don’t know what to say, really. They’re just parents. Dad’s in insurance. Mom used to be a teacher. She still subs sometimes, during the cold and flu season, when they’re short.” I took a drink of