One, there’s no way he’s not going to be noticed. He’s so tall and fit, I can’t imagine this rock god failing to draw attention to himself.
Two, I’m sure he has better things to do. Laundry is so ordinary.
Three, I’m sure there are other people he’d rather be spending time with.
I try making a case for why he should not come, but he cheerfully ignores my infinitely reasonable points and hoists my stinky clothes over his shoulder.
He’s about as stubborn as … I am. I give up, slip on flats, and drop my purse strap over my head.
This is just too weird.
Tyler and I trudge through the sticky heat to the Laundromat, reveling in the blast of cool air near the front door. A few other people are reading paperbacks, texting, or playing games on their phones. To my surprise, they don’t rush Tyler for an autograph.
I start my laundry and shove Tyler aside to get in front of the cool air. He shoves me back and it’s game on—we’re making heaps of noise tickling each other in this little skirmish. The people in the Laundromat ignore us.
Finally, Tyler declares me the winner and leans on a washing machine. I turn slowly under the jet of cool air, arms over my head as if I’m getting a spray tan. The air shifts with an updraft and I squeal, holding my dress down to avoid giving him a Marilyn Monroe-style flash of my panties.
Tyler smiles. “This is so … normal.”
“Yep. Normal people do this every day.”
“I mean, it feels like my normal life. This is how I grew up, my mom and me doing laundry. I miss that.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say, because although this is my new normal, and how my life has been for the last four years, it’s not how I grew up. I don’t remember ever washing and folding a load of laundry when I was a kid. The housekeeper did it for us.
“Don’t get me wrong, there are some major perks from being in the band. But things happened so fast in the last couple years that it’s hard to get used to everything. You know what I mean?”
I give Tyler a look and he reddens. Of course I don’t know what he means. I’m the one eating ramen noodles and scraping the bottom of my purse for laundry quarters. He could buy anything at any time, and he just rubbed it in.
“Shit. Stella. I didn’t mean it like that.” He moves to touch my arm but I skirt away from him, transferring my laundry from washer to dryer.
I keep my back to him, but I don’t want to rub it in, either. He didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, so during the dry cycle I talk to him—really talk—and I tell him how I grew up, wrapped in the upper-class privilege of dance and music lessons with no household chores to distract me.
Tyler describes how his mom raised him solo and put herself through college. His eyes shine with pride when he recalls how she bought a house for them when he was thirteen years old—their first permanent home after years in crappy apartments and Friday nights spent at the Laundromat. This house’s garage was the place where Tattoo Thief began.
The irony of these stories is not lost on us—his normal was working-class and now he’s leading a rich life, while my normal was rich and I’ve lived like a broke college student or journalist for the last four years.
We head back to Tyler’s loft with my clean laundry and I feel like we got away with some minor crime because nobody recognized him.
I make my ramen noodles while Tyler builds a heaping sandwich. He tells me it’s easier to go out in public because he’s not the front man. Fans recognize Gavin far more often than they spot the other guys.
It’s also a matter of context, Tyler says, because nobody expects to run into somebody famous at a Laundromat.
“You want to know my favorite disguise?” His eyes are bright with mischief and I nod, my mouth full of noodles. “UPS guy. The brown shorts and shirt. I got the set as my Halloween costume one year and now I can get away with going anywhere if I’m wearing it.”
I laugh and nearly snort noodles out my nose, imagining Tyler playing that role.
When we’re done with dinner, we’re both drenched with sweat and Tyler lets me take the first shower. He’s trying to get someone to come fix the air conditioner, but tonight’s going to suck.
Just before I get out of the shower, I flip the nozzle to cold. My nipples pucker as I force myself to endure the freezing downpour for a full minute before I shut the water off.
I skip underwear and throw on thin cotton pajama shorts and a tank top. Tyler takes his shower, and by the time he’s finished, I’m soaked in sweat again. The plastic air mattress is cloying, trapping heat and moisture against my skin.
“’Night, Stella.” The curtains surrounding my bed flutter as Tyler walks by but he doesn’t slow down.
My heart sinks with his casualness, but I can hardly expect warmth after being so cold to him last night. “Good night.”
I hear the boards above me creak as Tyler gets in his bed, and then I hear a whirring sound.
That bastard. He’s holding out on me.
SEVENTEEN
I seethe in silence. I know that sound—a fan. The privacy curtains make my space feel even more oppressive, without a hint of breeze.
“Tyler?” I ask quietly, unsure if he’s asleep.
“Yeah?”
“Is that a fan?”
“Yeah.”
This is so unfair. I decide to take matters into my own hands and I grab my pillow and blanket. Even sleeping on the floor under some breeze would be better than this.
I climb the stairs to his loft. “Are you decent?”
Tyler sits up and stares at me. He’s deliciously indecent—bare-chested, wearing nothing but boxers, the sheets and blankets on his bed shoved down to his feet. The fan on top of a dresser blows toward his bed.
My breath catches but I try to be businesslike. I march around his king-sized mattress and spread my blanket on the floor between the dresser and bed.
“What are you doing?” He looks utterly confused.
“It’s too hot. Since you only have one fan, I thought I could catch a little breeze up here. Is that OK?”
I flop my pillow on the floor and dare him to say no. Hair clings to my neck and my tank top is damp with sweat.
Tyler looks like he wants to say something, but he finally just mumbles OK. I lie down on the floor and shut my eyes, trying to get comfortable, but it’s really just plywood beneath my blanket. I should have brought up my yoga mat.
I hear Tyler tossing and turning too. His feet hit the floor near me and I jump.
“Stella. You can’t sleep there.”
I frown, hurt. Is he going to kick me back downstairs?
“Get up.” As soon as I’m sitting, he grabs my pillow and plops it on the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
I balk. “You can’t. It’s your home, and the air from the fan barely reaches the floor. You’ll be miserable.”
Tyler looks stricken. “You’re miserable?”
“It’s better than being homeless,” I mutter.
“Sit here,” Tyler commands. I obey, perching on the edge of the bed. “You’re sleeping here tonight. The fan is just moving hot air, but at least the mattress is comfortable.”
I lie down on my pillow, carefully avoiding getting anywhere near the middle of the bed. Tyler lies back too, his eyes open and focused on the ceiling.
“See? It’s not much better.”
Dim light from the city filters through Tyler’s windows and sweat glistens on his skin. I’m still far too hot to sleep comfortably. “Thank you anyway.”
Suddenly, he sits up and a big grin lights his face. “I have an idea!” He gallops downstairs and I hear him opening cupboards and rattling something. When he returns to the bedroom, he has a wide, stainless steel bowl filled with ice.