Push. Claire Wallis

David says as I turn the corner. “I just used the bag of Dunkin’ sitting next to the coffeemaker. I hope you don’t mind.” Of course I mind, you arrogant ass. This is not your apartment. That is not your coffee. You don’t even know how strong I like my Dunkin’.

      “That’s very nice of you, David. Thanks.” I walk over to the coffeepot. It is sitting on a place mat on the little table in the living room. Sitting next to it are two mugs, which I do not recognize, a spoon, a cup of milk from the fridge, and a bunch of tiny packets of sugar. I don’t have any tiny packets of sugar, so I immediately wonder where they came from. “Oh, wow,” I say. “Quite the setup.”

      “Yeah, I couldn’t find your mugs or your sugar, so I ran up to my place to get some.” He shrugs and then adds, “At least I waited a half hour before I broke my promise not to come into your apartment without you opening the door. I make a mean cup of coffee, though, so I think you’ll find it was worth the risk.” Ugh.

      I pour a cup for each of us and notice that he takes his black. I usually do, too, but I feel strangely guilty about not using any of the sugar he went upstairs for. I tear open one of the packets and pour it into my coffee.

      “Just so you know, your new cabinets and countertops are going to be delivered today,” he says. “They said we should expect them sometime this afternoon. If you’ve got shit to do, I’ll be here all day, so don’t feel like you have to stick around. I’m not going to steal anything, especially since you know where I live, and I’m not into trying on your panties or anything like that. I promise.” He puts his hands up in surrender as he says the last sentence.

      “Will it only take a half hour for you to break that promise, too?” I ask. “Cause I don’t want my panties all stretched out.” The image of David wearing a pair of my panties pops into my mind, and I have to try hard not to laugh out loud.

      “Very funny,” he says. “But thanks for the compliment.”

      “It wasn’t a compliment.”

      “Oh, yes, it was,” he says with an expression full of innuendo. “Look, I know you’re probably still really mad at me about this morning, and I get it. Really I do. I didn’t think about the whole woman-living-alone thing when I came in. I just want to finish your kitchen for you. I want you to be happy here, and I know how you girls like a fine-ass kitchen.”

      He wants me to be happy here? Why? “A fine-ass kitchen? Is that what you’re doing in there?” I ask, pointing to the massive mess.

      “Yes, Emma, it is,” he sighs. “I know you didn’t ask for all this, but I’m doing it because it’s what I am good at.”

      “Okay,” is all I can think to say. “But the whole panty thing is irrelevant anyway because everything I have to do today is right here in this apartment. I don’t have anywhere to go, so you’re stuck with me all day. And, no, I will not help you with anything. But, yes, you can use my head whenever you need to.”

      “Thanks,” he says.

      “And thank you for the coffee.” I walk away from him and over to a box of food on the living room floor. I pull out two breakfast bars and toss one to him. He catches it and retreats to the kitchen.

      * * *

      I put my iPod in the dock and ask David what kind of music he would like to hear.

      “Whatever you like,” he says. “It’s your place.”

      I decide on Killing Heidi, a now-defunct Australian band that my college roommate was nuts about.

      I spend the next hour unpacking. I empty all the boxes in the bathroom and organize my towels and toiletries in the linen closet. I hope David didn’t mean it when he said that he will make me a new bathroom after their next poker game. I like the bathroom just the way it is. I joke to myself that I’d better not let my fake grandma in here.

      I am making my way out to the living room when the album ends.

      “How about you pick out something you want to hear now?” I say. “You’re working here, too, and I don’t want to force you to listen to my crap all day.”

      “I liked that last one. I used to listen to that album when I was living in New Orleans.”

      Oh. “New Orleans, huh? What was that like?” I ask, my voice traveling through the living room wall and into the kitchen.

      “A hot mess. I hated it there. Too many drunks and a fucked-up girlfriend,” he answers casually. I want to ask him more, but I don’t because I’m not sure I really want to know.

      He walks out of the kitchen, pulling his iPhone out of his back pocket. I watch the birds move as he takes my iPod out of the dock and puts in his phone. After a moment, the music starts. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. I don’t know who it is, but she’s one hell of a singer. David looks over at me, and I raise my eyebrows in question.

      “Feist,” he says on his way back into the kitchen.

      Somehow, David listening to this kind of music is amusing to me, and I am glad he is back in the kitchen. I don’t want him to see my smile.

      I open the rest of the boxes in the living room and finish filling the bookcase with my favorite novels and some college textbooks I can’t bear to part with. David is still working in the kitchen when the door buzzer rings.

      “Ah,” he says. “That’ll be the cupboards then. Would you mind letting them in? I’ve got my hands full of spackle in here.”

      “Sure.” I head over to the intercom just as the music ends and slide the door release button. I walk over to the apartment door and open it to wait for the deliveryman, who I can hear walking up the steps. I am looking back into the apartment waiting for David to come out when I hear a voice.

      “Hi, Emma.”

      My head whips around, and Michael is in my face. That filthy fucker. The moment I see him, my heart drops into my gut, sinking me deep into a well of fear and rage. The sick, burning taste of bile rises up in my throat, and a surge of hate-fueled adrenaline rips through me, causing an instant rush of panic to streak across every nerve in my body. I immediately step backwards into the apartment and try to close the door on him, but his hand is sprawled out on it, holding it open. He is standing just inside the doorway.

      “Nice place, Emma.” His eyes quickly scan the room. Then they examine me from head to toe, and a split second later, they land on my eyes. It makes me sick.

      “What the fuck are you doing here, Michael?” I say with forced calm.

      “I just wanted to see you. Did you get the boxes I sent?” His voice is cold.

      “Yes.” I know he wants me to thank him for sending them, but my mouth is refusing. He wants me to say “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” But I am not a ten-year-old anymore, and he can’t make me.

      “Were you going to thank me for going through all that effort?”

      “No, Michael, I was not.” Oh, that is not going to make him happy. “You need to leave now.”

      “But I just got here, Emma. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

      “Michael, you are the last person I would ever invite into this apartment. Get the fuck out of here.” My skin prickles with energy, and the anger in my throat is fueling my words, making them sound far stronger than I feel. I promised myself I would knock him in the balls if he ever showed up here, but even though I am no longer a child, I can’t bring myself to do it.

      Michael steps inside defiantly, closing the door behind him. He is walking toward me. “Emma, your mom told me to look out for you and your brothers after she died. How can I do that if you won’t let me in?” He pauses and looks at me with his twisted-up smile. “God, you know, you look just like her. Except you...you don’t act like your mother at all. She was a woman who knew how to be a lady. She knew when to shut up and do what she was told. You, on the