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Krispy Kreme. I hope.”
    Delaney opened a drawer and put the press into my palm, our fi ngers grazing lightly, and she jumped a little. “You okay?” I asked.
    “Yeah,” she said, shaking her head. “Static electricity.” Then she asked, “So, are you over in your apartment whipping up masterpieces of culinary art?”
    “Just because I can cook doesn’t mean I do. It’s boring cooking for one.”
    “So cook for one of your dates.”
    “They’re not dates,” I said.
    “But you’re cooking with me,” she said with a smile.
    “Is this a date?”
    “Definitely not,” she said. She eyed me and looked like she was going to ask me something, and then thought better of it. “What?” I asked her.
    She took a deep breath and said, “Are all of your clothes wrinkled?”
    I looked down at my clothes. My shirt had grease stains from the bike, and my jeans were ripped and dirty. “I guess I don’t rea lly care about how I look.”
    “Yeah, of course someone like you wouldn’t care,” she said.
    “What’s that mean?”
    “Nothing,” she said. When I pressed her to explain, she shook her head and refused, and finally I gave up.
    She put some garlic bread in the oven as I doctored the pasta sauce and started to roll the meatballs. “I can’t believe it,” she said after a few minutes of silently watching me.
    “What?”
    “I think you’ve got layers, Oliver.”
    “Only a few.”
    “Like a seven layer dip?” she said.
    “Maybe three layer dip. Just the beans, cheese, and sour cream.” 
    “Can I ask you a question?” she said.
    “You just did.”
    “I was wondering why you date so many women.” Her cheeks turned bright red and when I stepped t oward her, she ducked her head as if staring at the pot of water would make it boil faster.
    “I don’t really date them.”
    She nodded and concentrated on the pot even more. “Okay.”
    “I just…”
    Her head popped up. “You just what?”
    “I just want a distraction. Women are a good distra ction.”
    “So sleeping with women is like a hobby?”
    “Hey.”
    “Sorry, forget I asked. Really.” After a few uncomfortable moments of silence she added, “Oh God, if you wanted to leave right now, I would totally understand.” She put her face in her hands and squeaked in embarrassment.
    I gently circled my fingers around her wrists to pull her hands away. “Delaney.” She squeaked again, loo king at my hands barely holding hers. “Delaney, I don’t have many good qualities, but I’m honest. Mostly. I don’t mind if you have a question. We’re friends, right? That’s what friends do.”
    “We’re friends?”
    “If we’re not friends, this dinner is going to get a lot more awkward.”
    “Okay, we’re friends,” she said and smiled at me again, and I dropped her hands and stepped away from her. Because she was my friend.

Delaney
    Oliver stood next to me at the sink and washed the dishes, and I watched the muscles of his forearms flex whenever he handed me a plate to dry.
    He stretched in the doorway to say goodnight, and his lean, long body looked so good I had to bite my lip and stare at the floor several times, inhaling cal ming breaths.
    He was kind and thoughtful all evening. We talked about libraries and work and Prairie Glen, and he li stened patiently to everything, and laughed in the right places when I wildly gesticulated, recounting the tale of the nudist in the book stacks we had to track down.
    He even grabbed my waist and gave me a goodnight hug, his fingers pressing against my waist like they always belonged there.
    Then he said, “Thanks for dinner, Skunk Girl,” tugged playfully on my hair and left with his box of lemon squares, and I remembered who he really was.

 
Four
Delaney
    Emily braced her hands on the brick wall of an alleyway along my running route near the big purple Victorian. “I can’t believe you do this every day,” she said through labored breaths.
    “I don’t. I run three, four days