Objects of My Affection by Jill Smolinski Page A

months. It’s not unreasonable for her to think I might have found someone else in this time. Yet to me, it’s as if his side of the bed is still warm. Even though I sold the bed.
    â€œSo why not come here? Live rent-free!”
    As I have every time she’s brought up my moving to Arizona, I hold back the real answer: Because if I had to live with my parents at thirty-nine years old, especially in the retirement community of Sun City, I would leap from a building. Instead, I say, “Ash is going to wantto come back when he’s done. He’ll have an easier time getting on his feet if I’m settled here, too.”
    â€œEither one of your brothers would also be glad to have you,” she presses.
    My brothers, Tim and Mike, still live in Wisconsin, where I grew up. They’re both married with kids. While I had no doubt they’d shove over one of their offspring to make room for me, I already have a similar arrangement conveniently right here in Chicago at Heather’s house.
    â€œThanks, Mom, but I’m going to give this my best shot.” Then I quickly say my good-byes before my mother can come up with any more relatives to pawn me off on.
    N iko takes it in stride the following morning when I tell him I don’t have anything ready to haul out. He asks me to hand him my phone. When I do, he punches his number into it. “Call me when you need me,” he says, tucking the phone into my front pants pocket with a wink.
    Huh. If I didn’t know better—that is, if he weren’t barely out of diapers—I’d say the boy was flirting with me. Perhaps he has a thing for older women who are incompetent at the jobs they’ve been hired to do. If that’s the case—with two days under my belt and only having made the house messier than when I arrived—I must be like a goddess to him.
    Minutes later, I’m in the kitchen clearing a spot on the counter to set my lunch when I hear a man’s laughter. It’s coming from the direction of Marva’s office.
    Please don’t let it be Will. This is too soon for him to check up on me. My mind races with excuses I can feed him for why nothing is done yet. Although I did move things around. Maybe he’ll buy the old “you have to make a mess to clean a mess” excuse.
    A bearded man bustles out to where I’m standing in the kitchen.“Miss Marva darling!” he calls out when he sees me. “You have company!”
    â€œI’m not company,” I say. “I’m here to help clean out the place.”
    He looks away from me and shouts, “The maid is here!”
    For crying out loud—my sweater is cashmere. “I’m not a maid.” That’s when I notice that he is wearing one of those scrubs shirts with the wacky patterns. I’m assuming medical profession—a nurse or medical technician (as I doubt a doctor would be wearing a cupcakes print). “I’m here to see Marva, but … is she okay?”
    â€œYep. Give us a few more minutes. I’m fixing her up with an IV drip.” He pulls a face as he looks around him. “She says there’s bottled water in the fridge. I’m afraid to look in there if it’s anything like the rest of this place.”
    I find myself strangely defensive of Marva. “The refrigerator’s fine. The house only recently got this way, and that’s because we’re organizing. Sometimes you have to make a mess to clean a mess.”
    Maybe I will use the line on Will because this guy seems to accept it. He heads to the refrigerator and opens it. “You’re right, not bad. By the way, I’m Nelson.” He shuts the refrigerator door. “I’ll be popping in for the next few days.”
    â€œI’m Lucy, the professional organizer. Obviously, I’ll be here a while. So why does Marva need an IV?”
    â€œSorry, that’s information for family