She wasn't in the shower too long when she got home, mostly because she was already soaking wet and just wanted to be dry and warm.
Stepping back into her bedroom, towels snugly around her, she turned on the clock-radio and hummed along to an oldies song as she picked out an outfit for that evening. Dinner was never declared a formal event, but they chose to dress up a little; maybe it had something to do with feeling like they had to impress each other. Not that they needed to.
Selecting a short grey skirt and a sky-blue blouse (she knew Pete liked the colour on her, he'd mentioned it once before), she placed the clothes on the bed, and pulled on some casual wear for her day off.
Miranda pigged out on pancakes and eggs for breakfast, and spent a couple hours watching old cartoon shows, curled up on the living room couch with a blanket. She'd only recently learned to enjoy watching TV. Usually, she was the type to go, go, go, always get things done. Somehow – with a big thanks to Pete and his forbidding her to leave the house one weekend due to a nasty flu, which led to a hilarious attempt of him trying to pick up her groceries for her – she realized that some shows were interesting, and that she could tolerate some downtime now and again.
She passed the with phone calls to a couple girlfriends, some paperwork, browsing the Internet for things that she didn't need but wanted to buy – all those things you want to do during the week but never have the time for.
They never needed it said that dinner was at five o'clock. So at half past four, she changed and stared out the window, debating taking a cab to his apartment or walking. It wasn't very far, but she didn't want to ruin her outfit. She decided to call a taxi, then sat in the living room to wait.
For all his extravagant taste, Pete lived in a simple little apartment. Mind you, some of the decorations revealed his tastes, but there was nothing stand-out about the apartment. A bland part of town, a non-descript building, a simple little two-bedroom design. It was a quiet area, very relaxed, trees trying to grow around the buildings… Maybe that was why he loved it so much.
Miranda sat on the dark couch, blue or black or some shade of grey, she'd never really paid enough attention to know, holding the teacup gently in a soft hand. Her head lowered, eyes closed, willing tears not to come. She'd made the mistake of telling Pete about the little boy, and it stung her like a giant, metaphorical bee.
But he wouldn't just sit there and let her cry. He was off his couch, taking the cup from her, putting his arms around her and pulling her close before she knew what was happening. Her head was on his shoulder, and her arms found their way around him. In lighter moments, she would look back and remember how solid and warm his body felt.
"I don't want to go through this again, Pete," she begged quietly, as if he had the power to make it all stop.
"I'll help you through this, all right? I won't let anything happen to you," he spoke calmly, quietly, over the top of her head, with the years of practice of talking to patients. The part where his arm was so far around her shoulders that it almost touched her breast, well, he didn't practice that in therapy. His dress pants felt tighter.
Her hands fidgeted with the fabric of his shirt. She allowed herself one more moment to feel afraid and unsure, then pulled away from him, sniffled. "I know," she forced a smile. "I'll be fine, I just lost it for a moment there."
He brushed her cheek, as he had once so long ago. "Miranda, I can't say I know what you're going through, and I'm not going to pretend. But, honestly, I want to help in any way I can. So, please, if you need anything, let me know, okay?"
She nodded, touched his hand that was so torturously close to her lips. She had a brief thought of turning her head to kiss his fingers. "Okay."
Moments later, they were both relaxed again, reclining in different seats, sipping their tea and chatting about less horrifying things.
"Oh, oh, sorry!" he cut her off in mid-sentence about gossip of a mutual friend, and dashed out of the room, almost dropping his teacup back onto its coaster. Miranda smiled, picturing how embarrassed he would be if it turned out that dinner had been burned. She rose, following him into the kitchen, cup still in her hand, sitting delicately at the table. He had thrown on oven mitts and was pulling a dish out of the oven.
There was a hint of amusement in her voice; "Something wrong, Pete, dear?"
He glanced over his shoulder at her, setting the dish down on the stovetop. "Don't you say anything about my cooking. I've never gotten this timer fixed."
"You should, you know. Maybe get a professional in."
"I tried fixing it."
"Yes, exactly. Hence – the professional."
"I'd rather buy a new stove than pay some lazy old fart to spend fifteen minutes trying to find out where I keep the liquor while he prays I have to take a pee break." He took the lid off the dish, poked it with a fork. "Thank God."
The table was already set, and Pete started serving everything up – the salad, topped with nuts and a dressing he'd created; the casserole, steaming and covered in cheese; and garlic bread, because "you can never have too much garlic," he'd stated once.
Miranda was watching him, smiling to herself. The bare-chested image of him appeared again. She looked down. As lovely as this plate was – fine China – she couldn't help thinking that he would make an even better dish.
"Put it back two channels. Three!" They were sitting side-by-side on the couch, tummies full, two wine glasses on the table, already refilled once or twice, television on in front of them, with Pete in full control of the remote.
"Who owns this house? Who has the remote?" Pete asked, holding it away from her.
"But I'm the guest!" she made her lips into what she hoped was a playful and sexy pout.
"You know you're really cute when you do that. Kind of sexy," he told her, his eyes moving from the screen to her delicate face.
"Thanks," she fluttered her lashes.
"But you're still not getting the remote."
"Damn."
"And I'm not putting on any crappy, lovey-dovey chick flick. We don't watch that garbage here."
"I resent that. I don't know what it was, I wanted to find out."
"Sure… Two people holding each other like that, doves chirping in the background, you can't tell me it's not some love story." He clicked back a few channels, finding the show she wanted to see, and left the remote on the arm of the couch.
"It's an old Tom Cruise movie," Miranda stated.
"So it is gonna be a love story. All his old stuff is like that."
"Do you have a problem with that? I thought there was a lot of action in his old movies."
"Not enough to make it watch-able."
"You're just jealous of his fabulous hair."
Pete wasn't expecting this silly retort, and he laughed. "Get real, 'Randa."
"Get real? No one says that anymore!" Her eyes were shining, partly because of the wine, and partly because he had just unofficially given her a nickname.
He picked up his wine glass, held as if toasting, and took a sip. He winked devilishly. "I've got an idea."
"Hmm?" She was still smiling.
"Drinking game?"
"What?!" Miranda gaped at him, her smile still strong.
"Let's play a drinking game. C'mon, every time Tom Cruise looks flirty, or smiles, or laughs, we'll take a drink."
"We're not in high school, Pete!" But she grabbed her glass, made herself comfortable again beside him.
"We did stuff like this in university, too, don't be silly."
"Maybe you did." She tried to make a scoffing sound, as if what he'd said was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard.
"Oh, you weren't Miss Perfect Example! You told me stories about yourself before."
"About how I got A's all the time, and never missed a lecture," she jabbed excitedly at the screen as Tom Cruise smiled, and they each took a sip.
"You also told me about how you played beer pong all weekend and told your folks you weren't getting enough hours at work, so they would send you money – which you spent on beer."
"That was you!"
"And you!"
Miranda tried to keep a straight face over her glass, but Pete raised an eyebrow and her concentration broke. She burst into giggles. "Those were such amazing times, weren't they," she had a dreamy look on her face.
"Mmm," he murmured, agreeing, resting an arm on the back of the couch; Miranda inched closer. Her hair was touching his shirtsleeve. He could smell her perfume. Something… flowery? He'd never cared what women smelled like, didn't care if they wanted to smell like baby powder or cupcakes or borscht, he had only ever cared what food smelled like. And if he had been the one to make it, it would obviously smell delicious. But now, with her… Pete breathed in, trying to figure out her perfume. Something outdoorsy. "'Randa?"
"Yeah?" She felt she would blush if he called her that one more time. She turned her face, her mouth mere inches from his. His breath was delicious; his mouth would taste exactly like the wine they'd been drinking…
"What's that you're wearing? Uh, your perfume? I can't put my finger on it," he cleared his throat, realizing his question had come out a bit juvenile-sounding.
"Lemongrass," she smiled.
He returned the smile, reaching over the arm of his couch and setting his wineglass on the small side-table that he knew was there. His glass might leave a water ring and ruin the wood, but he had something else on his mind at this moment, something far more important than damaging one silly little table.
"Do you like it?" she asked.
Pete's hand took her glass out of her fingers, and without turning he placed it beside his own. "Love it." His lips went for hers.