The Dom Project by Heloise Belleau, Solace Ames Page A

don’t respond well to me. They might think I’m there to sell opium or stab someone. I’d have dressed up a bit more if this wasn’t so last-minute.”
    Robin winced. She hadn’t thought of that, but of course he was right. She was the immigrant and foreigner, of course, not John—but no one seemed to have irrational prejudices against pale, petite Canadians.
    At their first stop, no one answered the door, and a yellowed collection of flyers suggested whoever lived there was months absent. The second Henderson came to the door, but he was an Alfredo from Guatemala and thought she wanted to sell him on a house appraisal.
    The next was an Alf, who at her question, tried to sell her some of his photos— wink wink , nudge nudge , if you know what I mean , young lady .
    Yuck.
    She left her business card at two houses where whoever lived there either wasn’t home or wasn’t answering his door.
    Midmorning, they stopped at a 7-Eleven for a couple of cappuccinos poured out of a grumbling machine. “What was the name of that guy you dated senior year?” John asked. “I remember you got him one of these machine coffees once...”
    “ Once ,” she said. “Chris, the coffee snob. He acted like I’d just handed him a cup of rohypnol topped with battery acid poured into the skull of his grandmother. My God! I thought I was doing him a favor because he was pulling an all-nighter on an essay. Apparently not.”
    John laughed and took a swig of cheap foamy coffee. “Yeah, he was twitchy as hell. Always wondered if he was that way in bed too.”
    “That never happened. I was too worried he’d be high maintenance. After the coffee thing I suspect I was right.”
    They missed the next turn and had to drive in a big circle. Robin didn’t mind. They’d gone back to the way things were, joking about the past and having fun in the present and not worrying about the future. True, her heart pounded a few beats faster when he wiped the foam from his upper lip with his hand, and then licked his finger, but that was a simple physiological response. It didn’t figure in the grand scheme of things. They could do this. Navigate new boundaries, keep their friendship.
    The address was in a dilapidated duplex, apartment number barely visible under the shade of a massive oak tree. John parked as close as he could, then got out of the car and leaned against it so he had a direct view of the door. He still had a tiny fleck of tan-colored foam at the corner of his mouth.
    She raised her eyebrow. Caught his eye. Tapped the corner of her mouth.
    “Oh,” he said, and licked it away. “All gone?” She heard another question playing hide-and-seek underneath all gone and knew he was teasing her.
    No. It’s still there. Let me. Let me help you be perfect. Let me be your —
    “Yes,” she said, a touch shaky. “You...it’s all gone.” She broke eye contact and hurried down the walkway toward the door. His presence at her back was disconcerting—was she putting too much sway in her step? Too little?—but also made her feel secure.
    By the time she knocked on the door, she was fully focused on the goal. Shoulders set straight, not slumped, pleasant smile, serious eyes— don’t blink too much .
    She heard a muffled scraping noise, and knocked again. “Goddammit, I’m coming,” rasped a cavern echo of a voice.
    Julio definitely would’ve had a panic attack.
    When the door creaked open, she kept her professional smile fixed firmly in place. “Good morning. Am I speaking with Mr. Alfred Henderson?”
    “That’s me.” He wheezed; it sounded like eh , eh —vaguely mocking. “What do you want?”
    He was tall, but crooked, leaning down to near her level, weight resting against the wheeled metal stand that held his oxygen tank. He had a short beard and mustache, irregular white patches mixed with gray. Julio had mentioned he might have had a beard.
    “Hi, my name is Robin Lessing.” He didn’t seem eager to shake her hand, so she