Page 4 of Benji

“Uh, sure.”

He smiled, changing his whole face. The concern was gone for a moment, replaced by a light in his eyes, and there was the hint of a dimple.

I was always a sucker for a dimple...

He disappeared behind the couch, and I could hear him in the kitchen. A plate on a countertop, the toaster being pressed down, the fridge door opening and closing. Then I heard coffee beans being ground.

Real coffee?

I sat up slowly, taking in the room. Open plan, expensive furniture. My shoes were placed neatly by the couch, my phone screen down on the coffee table.

I checked my pockets for my key to the apartment, thankful when I found it.

I turned then to watch Nolan. He wore a long-sleeve Henley and some jeans that probably cost more than my rent. His kitchen was the fancy kind, and yeah, it was one of those expensive coffee machines with its own grinder.

I could smell it.

I’d grown up with all these riches, and god, how I’d missed good coffee.

Nolan turned, coffee cup in hand, and he smiled again when he saw that I was sitting up. “Here,” he said, bringing me the coffee. “Do you take sugar?”

“No, thanks,” I replied. I used to take sugar but hadn’t had the luxury in a long time. I was used to going without.

I sipped it and sighed at the taste.

My forehead felt tight, and a quick touch to my hairline found a Band-Aid. Oh.

Then I remembered... when I’d seen those men last night, I’d ducked so fast to hide that I’d cracked my head on the lid of a dumpster.

And then I’d ran . . . Across the unlit park and onto the street . . .

Fuck.

A second later, Nolan was back with a plate and a glass of orange juice. “Just plain butter,” he said with a grimace. “I wasn’t sure if you liked peanut butter or Vegemite.”

Oh my god.

Hot toast with butter . . .

I tried not to shovel it in. I tried to act like it was no big deal, but the way he was watching me, it was impossible not to be embarrassed.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, sipping the juice.

The juice was even better than the toast or coffee. Cold, fresh, and so good. The expensive kind. I remembered taking this shit for granted.

I could feel Nolan staring at me, so I avoided making eye contact. I knew how I looked—like I hadn’t eaten in days.

“I’ll make you some more,” he said, taking my plate and glass. When I handed the glass over, I caught his eye. I expected to see pity or loathing, but no. He was smiling. “Plain toast okay again? Or would you like peanut butter?”

I was never saying no to peanut butter.

“Uh, sure, that’d be great, thanks.”

He went back to the kitchen. “Take some ibuprofen,” he said. “You’ve got some scrapes; it will help with any aches.”

I snatched up the sleeve of pills, popping two and downing them with the coffee.

It was then I noticed another blanket on the single-seater, as if he’d slept there to keep an eye on me.