FOUR

Text messages between Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam and Mr. Reginald R. Cleaves

Can I bother you for a favor, Reginald?

I thought you weren’t speaking to me anymore

Soon you will be rid of me forever.

But I need help one last time, and fairly urgently.

What is it

Where does one purchase cooking equipment in the twenty-first century?

And can you tell me how to get there?

Oh SHIT

We forgot to get pots and pans didn’t we

I also need to borrow your little plastic money card thing one last time.

I suspected the owners of Gossamer’s had originally wanted the place to be an artsy hipster coffee shop, with indie bands performing on the weekends and local art on the walls. It was in an old building Chicago tour guides would have called architecturally significant, with pretty, stained-glass windows facing the street and Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired clean lines. The furniture was thrift-shop funky, and all the coffee drinks had names starting with We Are and ending with an inspiring adjective.

None of us who worked there understood why a coffee shop that mostly served finance bros bothered with hipster naming conventions for their entirely generic drink offerings. Because despite what I suspect were the owners’ original plans, Gossamer’s neighborhood was much more suit-and-tie than hipster. Its location—right by a Brown Line stop—meant most of our customers were commuters on their way to or from their jobs in the Loop, with the occasional college student thrown in for variety.

Of course, I’d rather have worked at an actual hipster coffee shop. But a job was a job. And this one didn’t pay half bad.

Even if the food sucked and the drinks had silly names.

The dinner options were extra limited when I got there for my evening shift. Usually, by six o’clock most of Gossamer’s pre-made food had long since been sold. The only sandwiches left were a sad, soggy peanut butter and jelly and a hummus and red pepper on wheat bread. Whoever supplied Gossamer’s pre-made food really needed to learn how to make friends with flavor. And texture.

My shift didn’t start for fifteen minutes, so I had just enough time to scarf something down. I grabbed the hummus and pepper sandwich—the less tragic of the two options—and made my way to one of the tables near the back.

There was only one customer there—a guy who looked about thirty-five, with dirty-blond hair and a black fedora tilted so far forward it covered half his face. He had a mug of something hot and steaming in front of him.

I could feel his eyes on me as I crossed over to the table in the corner where I usually ate before my shifts.

He cleared his throat.

“Hm,” he said, to no one. “Let me see.” He was openly staring now, leaning slightly towards me, a weird, calculating expression on his face. His tone, his expression, even his posture—everything about him suggested he was sizing me up. Evaluating me. Not in a sexual or predatory way, exactly. More like he was an interviewer trying to decide whether I was right for a job.

It was still creepy as hell.

I glanced at the front door, hoping my manager Katie was on her way.

After another few moments the guy nodded as if he’d come to a decision. “I don’t know what he was so worried about. You should do fine.”

The job interview apparently over, he turned his full attention back to his phone.

Gossamer’s sometimes got perverts at night. Just part of working at a coffee shop. My typical approach was not to engage with them and just let my manager handle it if things got too weird. But at that moment I was exhausted from my move and too unnerved by this bizarre interaction to wait for Katie.

Against my better judgment, I engaged.

“What did you just say?”

“I said you should do fine,” he replied without looking up from his phone, sounding annoyed at the interruption.

“What do you mean, I should do fine?”

“Just exactly that.” He glanced at me, smirking. He pushed back from his chair and stood up. I noticed, for the first time, that he was wearing a floor-length navy-blue trench coat that clashed horribly with his black fedora. Underneath it was a bright red T-shirt that said Of course I’m right. I’m Todd!

Probably not a pervert, then. Just a garden variety weirdo. We got those sometimes, too.

“I’ll be going now,” he said, importantly but unnecessarily. “I must meet a friend in need at Crate & Barrel.”

When I looked up again he was gone. The only sign he’d even been there was the mug of still-steaming We Are Legion he’d left behind. The most expensive cappuccino drink we made. It was completely untouched.

Of course it was.

God. Customers who ordered expensive coffee they didn’t even drink were so annoying and wasteful. I brought “Todd’s” mug to the blue plastic tub where we bussed the dishes, scowling and irritated.

There weren’t many of us scheduled to work that night. Loading the dishwasher would probably end up being my job. But I could do that later. I still had a few minutes before my shift started, and my hummus and red pepper sandwich wasn’t going to eat itself.

Thankfully, Katie showed up a few minutes after “Todd” left, and then Jocelyn—another barista—showed up at seven-thirty. With the three of us working it ended up being a slow night. A few more customers trickled in, mostly students looking for a relatively quiet spot to study and socialize over homework and lattes. Thankfully, there were no more leering oddballs in trench coats and fedoras.

Shortly after Jocelyn showed up, I was wiping down a table that had just been vacated when my phone buzzed in my pocket with a new text.

I pulled it out and glanced down at the screen.

Hello Cassie. This is Frederick.

I have a question for you.

I looked over my shoulder to where Katie was waiting on a customer and Jocelyn was making a drink behind the counter. They seemed to have things well enough in hand that I could reply to him now.

Sure! I’m at work but I have a minute.

What’s up?

Do you eat sauce?

I stared at my phone. Sauce?

Yes. Do you enjoy eating it?

Why

I am presently at a store that sells cooking implements. An entire section of the store is dedicated to “saucepans.”

Other customers seem quite enamored with them but before I purchase one for the apartment I wanted to confirm that sauce is something you eat.

A bark of unexpected laughter escaped me before I could stop it.

Who would have thought Frederick had such a dry sense of humor?

you’re hilarious

I am?

Yes, I just lol’d in public

I do not know what “lol’d” means.

OMG, I’m going to get in trouble here at work if I keep laughing.

Oh. I apologize.

I didn’t intend to get you in trouble with your employer.

It’s fine.

My manager is cool.

Though I should probably get to work.

Of course. I will see you at home eventually.

With saucepans.

By this point I was smiling so broadly my cheeks hurt.

Maybe this new living situation would work out after all.

By the time I got back to Frederick’s brownstone it was nearly midnight.

I was exhausted. I usually was after a shift spent making drinks and cleaning tables, but it was made worse by having spent the first part of the day lugging heavy boxes around and moving into Frederick’s apartment. I felt all but dead on my feet as I trudged up the stairs to the third floor.

As I unlocked the front door to the apartment and let myself in, I decided that first, I would take a shower to wash off the grime from all the running around I did that day. Then I would collapse into bed. I didn’t have anywhere to be in the morning—Gossamer’s didn’t need me to come in, and neither did the library—so the next day I would sleep in as long as I could.

I was all set to embark on the first part of my plan when the enormous number of boxes stacked in neat piles on the kitchen counters caught my eye. Those hadn’t been there when I’d left for work that evening.

Curious, I made my way into the kitchen—and stopped short when I realized what all these boxes were.

Frederick had made good on his promise to find me cookware.

And not just any cookware.

He’d gotten five Le Creuset saucepans, six Le Creuset frying pans of varying sizes, two of the largest woks I had ever seen, a waffle maker, a Crockpot, and a toaster oven. When I turned, thunderstruck, to see the boxes stacked on the kitchen table, I realized he’d also purchased ten place settings’ worth of silverware from Crate & Barrel.

Stunned, I picked up the note with my name on it that lay beside the place settings. As with Frederick’s previous notes to me, he’d written my name on the outside of the envelope in cursive so fancy it was nearly calligraphy.

Dear Miss Greenberg,

Please let me know if these cooking implements will suffice. You never answered my questions vis-à-vis your feelings on sauce, so if the saucepans are not of use I can return them to the establishment where I purchased them.

Regarding your questions concerning redecorating your bedroom, as I told you when you moved in you are welcome to redecorate your bedroom however you like. I ask only that you not destroy anything currently in the room. Many items in my home are heirlooms that have been in my family for a great many years. My mother in particular would become cross should harm come to them.

When you said you were an art teacher I admit it had not occurred to me that you also created art of your own. In hindsight, that was foolish of me. Do let me know when you have redecorated. I would very much like to see some of your work.

Yours in good health,

Frederick J. Fitzwilliam

I set down the note, smiling despite my exhaustion.

Please let me know if these cooking implements will suffice. He had to be joking, right? These were the nicest pots and pans I’d ever seen outside of the high-end stores on the Magnificent Mile.

As for the rest of Frederick’s note, I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d think when he saw the ancient fox hunt painting currently hanging in my bedroom replaced with a canvas full of Lake Michigan’s finest beach trash. Based on his other decorative choices I doubted he’d like my work at all.

But the fact that he was at least curious about my art made me feel warm inside, for reasons I was too tired to analyze.

In fact, I was so tired I felt about ready to collapse. But before I showered and went to bed I wanted to write a reply.

Frederick,

The pots and pans you got are AMAZING. You totally didn’t need to get anything this fancy just for me. Especially since my cooking repertoire is fairly limited. The next time we’re both in the apartment I’d be happy to cook you something to thank you (as long as it’s scrambled eggs, pasta, or beans).

Cassie

I made my way into the bathroom and stripped down. Frederick’s bathroom was massive—at least twice the size of the bedroom in my old apartment. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to it. The floor was white tiled marble, which was achingly cold beneath my feet. I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised by that, given how cold Frederick kept the rest of the apartment. I’d have to talk to him about that at some point; wearing sweaters whenever I was home wasn’t something I really wanted to do.

I opened the door to the glass-walled shower and hurried inside, turning up the water temperature as high as it would go and letting the hot steam warm me.

Years of high student loan payments and minimum wage jobs taught me to fear utility bills and to keep my showers efficient and quick. But Frederick paid the utilities here. Just for once, I decided to treat my sore and aching muscles and linger for a while.

I sighed, luxuriating in the feel of the steady spray and perfect water pressure hot against my back. I let my mind wander as the water sluiced over me, thinking through how I might spend the next day. With all the chaos of my eviction notice and moving, I hadn’t been to the studio where I did most of my work in weeks. After sleeping in as long as I could, maybe I would head out to Pilsen and poke around on something new the rest of the day.

After a while—ten minutes? an hour?—I glanced down at my fingers. They were wrinkled as prunes from the water. How long had I been in there?

I reluctantly turned off the hot water and opened the shower door. The air felt even colder than it had earlier after the hot shower I’d just taken, causing a riot of gooseflesh to erupt on the backs of my arms. I grabbed my towel off the back of the door where it hung from a silver chrome hook and wrapped it tightly around my body, tucking it under my arms.

My shower had steamed up the mirror. I quickly rubbed the back of my hand over it so I could see my reflection.

I frowned at what I saw.

My hair was growing back from the impulsive scissors incident from a few weeks ago, but it was still shorter than I usually kept it. And weirdly uneven. Once it dried, it was going to stick up in the back no matter how much product I put in it.

Once I got my feet under me a little more, the first thing I was going to do was make an honest-to-god visit to an actual salon to fix what I’d done to myself. In the meantime, I should probably do what I could to make myself look presentable.

I thought of the fabric shears in my bedroom. They were probably too dull to do a good job on my hair. But they’d be better than nothing.

Tucking my towel a little more tightly around my body, I opened the bathroom door and prepared to make a beeline straight for my bedroom—

—and barreled directly into Frederick, my face smashing right into his chest.

His bare chest.

I must have been overheated from the shower, or from embarrassment—or both—because his flesh felt almost unnaturally cool. He stood there as unmoving as a statue, a pair of small white linen shorts slung distractingly low on his hips, as I yelped and sprang away from him. His right hand was raised in a fist, as though he’d just been about to knock on the bathroom door when we collided.

His eyes were wide as saucers, his face as pale as moonlight.

We babbled out our apologies at the same time.

“Miss Greenberg! Oh, I beg your pardon, I—”

“Shit! I’m so sorry! I didn’t—!”

In hindsight, it should have occurred to me that living with another person meant walking around in nothing but a towel wasn’t something I could do anymore. But he’d made such a big deal about usually being out all night. How was I supposed to know that at the exact moment I’d decided to leave the bathroom he’d be standing right outside the bathroom door, shirtless?

As I stood only a few inches away from him in nothing but a towel, my wet hair dripped steadily onto my bare shoulders. His chest was at a level with my eyes, and . . .

I tried not to gape. I really did. Gaping at my new, barely dressed roommate when I was mostly naked myself was not only gross but also wildly inappropriate. But I couldn’t help myself. This man had been hiding an actual, honest-to-god six-pack beneath his perfect-fitting clothes. His broad chest tapered down to a narrow waist, the way he wore his shorts making him look like he was a goddamn underwear model instead of a doctor or CEO or whatever the hell he was.

Frederick wasn’t just attractive, I realized.

He was a Greek god.

The seconds ticked by as we stood there—me ogling him, him staring wide-eyed at a spot of nothing just beyond my left shoulder. I tried to think about anything but how close we were standing, how little we were wearing, and the way my heartbeat was suddenly racing. And then, because I’d never had much of a self-preservation instinct, I had a sudden, nearly irresistible urge to trace the solid lines of his chest with my fingertips. To see if those abs of his were as rock hard as they looked.

What would he do if I did?

Would he kick me out and find a roommate who actually knew how to behave appropriately in awkward situations? One who could also maybe pay him rent closer to market rate? Or would he pull my towel away and toss it to the side before he took my body in those giant hands of his, and—

I clenched my hands into tight fists and forced them down by my sides before I had a chance to do anything stupid. The prickling heat of a furious blush rose up through my body, warming my cheeks and making my hands sweat.

Frederick wasn’t blushing, though he still looked at least as embarrassed as I felt. To his credit, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the wall behind me. He honestly looked like he might die if he let his gaze shift towards me by so much as an inch.

Clearly, he wasn’t even half the perv I was.

He was a gentleman.

A totally misplaced rush of disappointment went through me at the realization.

I cleared my throat to try and keep my thoughts on the matter at hand. “I didn’t think you’d be . . . I mean, you said you’re usually out at night, and . . .”

“I apologize, Miss Greenberg.” His voice sounded strained. He still wouldn’t look at me. “The shower was running for so long I assumed you had left the apartment without turning it off. So I came.” He paused, eyes going even wider when he realized what he’d just said. “To the bathroom, that is. To turn it off. The water, I mean.”

He dipped his head towards me in an awkward bow. At this point my face must have been so red it could be seen from space. “Please forgive me, Miss Greenberg. It will never happen again.”

And then he stepped around me, making sure not to brush up against any part of my body as he passed.

I heard the click of the bathroom door behind me, and then what sounded a lot like the contents of the medicine cabinet crashing to the tiled bathroom floor.

“Are you okay?” I called out, alarmed. Had he been so mortified by what just happened he fell down?

“Yes! Perfectly fine!” Frederick said, sounding strangled, before letting out what sounded like a string of low, muttered curses.

I was so embarrassed I hardly remembered walking into my bedroom. But the second I was inside my bedroom I slammed the door shut and then flung myself face-down onto my bed, all thoughts of sleep forgotten. My heart was hammering so hard it felt like my ribs might break. I tried to tell myself that it was simply because what just happened was one of the most awkward moments of my life. But deep down I knew that was only part of it.

I didn’t want to think about how incredible Frederick looked without a shirt. Nothing good could come from that line of thinking. With everything else going on in my life, having lurid fantasies about a handsome man who was miles out of my league and my roommate to boot was the last thing I needed to be doing with my time.

With difficulty, I forced myself to think about my plans to get my canvases out of Sam’s storage unit the next day.

My hair was still a disaster. That needed my attention, too.

I grabbed the fabric shears from the top of my desk. They were even duller than I remembered. But if I messed up my hair even more, at least it would stop me from thinking about what just happened with my roommate.

I started cutting, and . . . well, the end result was marginally better. If you squinted. At least the ends were even.

I turned off the lights and climbed into bed, cringing at how reliably good I was at messing up my life, even when nothing else went according to plan.