"I had this done in October," he says, handing the sheet to me. I stare at it with no idea what I'm supposed to be looking for.
"Luke, I don't know what any of this means," I say, indicating the sheet. "What are you trying to say?"
"I'm trying to tell you that I'm clean, you have nothing to worry about."
"Great." I smile, relieved.
"No, Sophie. It's not great." He looks annoyed. "You should always have this information prior to having unprotected sex." He runs a hand over his eyes. "I'm setting a really shit example for you. Promise me you'll never allow anyone to touch you without a condom before exchanging test results first."
"You want me to have all my future lovers hand over test results prior to ditching the condoms. Got it, Doctor," I say sarcastically because this conversation stings. I can't look at him right now. I cannot believe he's lecturing me about future lovers. Am I supposed to be touched by his concern? Creeped out by his authoritative decree? Or devastated that he's talking to me about other men touching me?
"Goddamn it." Luke mutters something about going to use the gym as he stalks out of the kitchen. I hear the front door slam two minutes after that and I still haven't moved from where he sat me on the counter.
What just happened? Is he mad at me or I at him?
I clean up the kitchen and take the pie out when the timer dings, then stare out the kitchen windows at the Philadelphia skyline, still confused about what set him off. Was I not taking his safe-sex talk seriously enough? Forgive me, but being lectured by my current lover about future lovers pisses me off.
Luke’s still not back from the gym. I know it’s in this building, but I'm not sure which floor so I couldn't go find him even if I wanted to. I'm bored, I'd like to go out for a walk and window-shop the cute stores along 18th Street, but I don't have a key to get back in and besides, I don't want to leave without talking to him.
I wander back into the kitchen and use my iPad to look up recipes on Pinterest. Determining Luke has all the necessary ingredients for pumpkin chocolate-chip cookies, I set to work on those to keep busy. This kitchen is a baker's dream. Tons of counter space and a big high-end oven. Plus a dishwasher to help clean it all up. I can't imagine Luke using any of it—I'm not sure why he even has mixing bowls and baking sheets. I don't want to think too hard about it either, because I don't want to imagine some previous girlfriend making herself at home like I am right now.
The front door clicks open a while later, while I'm peering into the oven checking on the two trays of cookies inside. Heels click-clack a second before a female voice calls out for Luke.
I shut the oven door.
"Luke, darling, where are you?" She sounds like she's crying. There's a strange crying woman in Luke's apartment? How did she get in? I step into the hallway but I don't see anyone. A moment later her heels click from the hallway that leads past the coat closet to the master bedroom, as if she's just checked the bedroom looking for Luke. Interesting. The heels click-clack towards me and then Gina rounds the corner and stops facing me.
She's dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, her face distraught, until she sees me. A flash of surprise crosses her face, but she quickly regains herself.
"Where is Luke?" she asks me, still sniffing into her tissue, tears welled up in her eyes. She looks down the hall that leads to his office as if she's about to walk past me in search of him.
Bitch.
I take in her appearance. Her hair and makeup are perfect, her clothing impeccable. It's the day after Thanksgiving, most of America is in jeans or sweatpants and this woman is wearing four-inch heels, a pencil skirt and a blouse neatly tucked in with a slim belt around her waist. A camel-colored wool coat is folded over her arm, as if she took it off in the elevator on the way up, planning on staying awhile.
"He's…" I'm about to tell her he's at the gym but she probably knows exactly which floor the gym is on. She managed to get past the front desk and into the condo just fine. In a moment of bitchiness I respond, "He's not here."
Her tears dry up in an instant. "Where is he?" she asks as she eyes me, standing in Luke's foyer in jeans and a sweater. My shoes are off, my hair up. I'm clearly comfortable in Luke's home, but then again, so is she. She walked right in the front door seeming to know exactly where to look for Luke in this giant place.
I'm saved from answering as the timer sounds on the oven. "He's not here," I repeat as I turn and head into the kitchen, hoping she will take the hint and see herself out the same way she saw herself in. "I'll tell him you stopped by," I add while silently begging her to get out.