It's considered rude to self-invite, at least that was what I learned. I couldn't text Sugar: "Can I come over?"

I could instead ask her to come over to my place. The question held many interpretations: secluded, intimate, one-on-one space in an unfamiliar location. What could happen? What would be my motivation? I could almost imagine Sugar's face, scrunched up, mouth closed. Nose turned red. And fast, side to side, head shaking, "No."

Sugar had never been to my apartment.

And probably never will.

That thought gnawed at my brain.

Will she be comfortable around me in my home? Would she even give a second to think before already having a pre-conceded judgement?

I stared up at my apartment ceiling. The sharp motion etched on the material, a reminder of how the builders completed the final step. A black dot appeared to be moving, I closed my eyes and then opened. The dot . . . I guessed it stayed. I rubbed my index fingers over my eyelids, groaning.

The past several months, Sugar allowed me to touch her. Her knuckles, thumbs, and clammy hands; her shoulders in mid-hug, even the quick side hug where our hips met, and the palm of my hands rubbed her back. Well... most of those were instigated by her.

Her warm breath.

Thin upper lip, bottom lip fuller – baby pink taunting.

That freakin' air kiss.

She's comfortable and more confident, I argued with myself. She might say yes. Maybe? She could if I say it's work related. Yeah. That'll ease her mind.

I completed my two solo interviews, I felt like the questions focused on my journey with the women. Sugar. I took calm, even breaths. My answers flowed, words came easy and continued, almost as if I spoke too much; the descriptions long-elegant, well I believed I did. The experience differed from my Penelope episode. Three weeks had gone by since we had our last session. May had sunshine and new blooms, landscapers dumped rich, dark mulch. Summer fever.

I needed to update her: Hazel's reports, release date, Penelope left the team . . . and about them.

Without this project, would we continue . . . whatever this is. What does she want? I-I think I know what I want. What'll happen?

Time to go back to TrueMatch?

Bagels.com?

FarmersMarket?

No.

I couldn't.

Once the mini-series got on air; my identity would be compromised. Maybe I would get additional views? Possible dates.

None of those outcomes tickled my fancy.

Just a brunette with a helper's heart and a delicious name. I craved her melted buckeyes, milk chocolate and peanut butter.

I typed in my phone.

Hey Suga!

It's been awhile. I have updates on our project. Want to come over to my place and chat?

I reread it.

I shook my head.

Seemed too desperate.

Isn't that what I want to say?

Yes.

However too forward.

Any other words to ask? I leaned back on my couch, twisting to my left. Feet and legs propped on the middle seat.

My thumb held down as the words disappeared.

Instead, I wrote. Clicking followed my movements.

Want to come over?

Ugh. This was bad.

I held down the button. Waiting for the clicking noise, I heard a "swoosh" instead.

The message sent.

Crap. Crap! No! No!

I jumped up from the couch. My phone slipped from my hands, hitting the couch's cushions. It bounced once before staying still. The screen dimmed. I held both of my hands in front of my mouth. Curse words all over the spectrum flowed in my brain.

I can't delete it. Who invented text messages? Especially without a delete right away?!

My fingers laced through my hair, the ends standing up as I continued the motion. A pattern. Root to end. Root to end. Somehow the gesture seemed to ease me of this bad circumstance.

I know! I'll add another sentence.

I picked up my phone.

Underneath my message, it said I had a chance. She hadn't read it yet. Need to say something else. Without coming across needy and desperate . . . and creepy.

"What kind of a man are you? Getting too skittish."

I grind my teeth. That voice. Deep, quick to slice in my gut.

Go away. You're gone. Go away.

My fingers typed in a quick response.

Mr. Dalton told us the release date. Also gave me a short clip for the "teaser."

Yeah, that seemed legit.

Nothing too weird. A nice flow. A reason. A purpose for her to come over. Nothing to do with the fact, I wanted to hug her, embrace those warm arms, cashmere aroma inhaling, or her caramel eyes –

My phone lit up. I gulped. I clicked on the green message.

Where do you live?

Sent 4:06 PM

What – did she – really ask?

I reread the message three times. Actually, seven. I locked my phone and opened it again. To make sure my eyes weren't reading something that I wanted her to say. This was reality. Correct?

I texted Sugar McKenzie right?

Double checking, I texted the correct person. I only knew one person by her name. Yes.

Sugar said that.

She meant it.

Wait – wait! She asked for my address.

Oh sh – I needed to clean my apartment!

I typed in my apartment number, address, landmarks like the healthy yogurt dessert place that was underneath my apartment, where to park, and other unnecessary add ons when in fact I should be cleaning. She responded.

Thanks. The landmarks help. I'll see you soon.

Sent 5:12 PM

Soon.

Soon wasn't enough time.

I lost track of time as I threw lonely socks into my closets, wiping the kitchen countertops three times with the natural citrus wipes, and sweeping up the tiniest dust that were too small to even be called crumbles. Fluffing up the pillows, turning on the standard cartoon home setting for my T.V. – royal purple and navy backgrounds, and setting the music low. Instrumental, maybe jazz? Oh sh – No! This wasn't a date.

I just needed to show Sugar a warm, calm evening.

Between two colleagues . . . wait, we weren't coworkers anymore.

Friends?

The word made my fingers twitch. My skin began to sweat more.

Oh – crap – I need to change.

I ran into my bedroom. Picking up the closest t-shirt, I could find from the pile on my dresser, I changed into the navy polo. Wait. That's too much. I peeled off the shirt. My hair getting tossed in the quick movement. I reached over to the left side of the dresser, a crème t-shirt laid there.

I hope there aren't any stains.

With a quick glance over the material, I then put the shirt on.

Too casual?

The doorbell rang.

No! No! Not already.

I saw a navy hoodie hanging on my bronze bed frame near the foot of the bed. The hood was keeping itself from being directly on the carpet. I slipped my right arm and then my left in, the crème strings were uneven and had different size knots on the end of them.

I tried to close my bedroom door with my foot, the door was left half open. The circular knob taunted me. Second doorbell, the sound was slow and long. My fingers twirled, loosing up the double knot that somehow occurred while also pulling on my right side to even the lengths.

"I'm coming!"

Weaving from side to side in the hallway, I made it to the front door. Where Sugar stopped. I took a deep breath. One last hand brushing through, hoping to God the hair strands followed my action. I licked my lips. The palm of my hand pressed against the white door, before I opened it.

Big smile.

My hand continued to lean against the doorframe.

Sugar grinned back.

She was here.

In front of me.

At my apartment.

She wore a floral pattern sundress, which stopped at her knees. An emerald background with white lilies and rosy pink peonies dashed on her stomach, shoulders, and chest. I dismissed that area, or tried to, noticing the black leggings and tan high heel sandals. It gave her an inch or two, which helped her come up to my shoulders instead of my chest. In her hands, a dark brown circular bag. Caramel waves seemed too symmetrical. Her eyes held onto my gaze.

"Man, your details were spot on to what you texted," Sugar declared, "Even meeting the front desk gentleman. Gary is sweet. He showed me a picture of his cats, well, at least he's hoping to adopt them. He is a bit of a talker."

Her words continued. Smooth. However, I heard her gasping for air.

She's nervous.

"Yeah, he has to wait two more weeks before he can legally adopt Mr. Whiskers."

"Mr. Whiskers?" Sugar giggled.

"Yes. He's leaning towards that or Mr. Peaches. It's whiskers that make him special."

Sugar covered her mouth. Her short-painted nails tried to conceal her teeth, and her boisterous laugh, an alto one where I felt the vibrations in my chest.

Gosh, her smile.

She looked up and down.

I kept on looking at her. Her eyes. Nose, this time wasn't scarlet, a peachy tone. Short eyelashes. Oh –

"Come on in." I moved out of the way.

Idiot.

"Thanks." She walked over the threshold, walking past me, an air breezed by giving me a taste of vanilla. Sugar continued to talk as I shut the door. "I brought leftovers from my work. I baked lemon sugar cookies and for some reason they didn't touch them. I guess they prefer chocolate."

Sh – I don't have anything for us to eat – I didn't think this through.

I prayed I had something in the fridge. The most I had was one half opened beer bottle, one unopened beer can, butter, maybe some ham for sandwiches, and orange juice? Maybe a lime?

"That's odd," I said, realizing my delayed reaction, "Chocolate is good, but hey, can't go wrong with lemon."

Sugar nodded.

"Where should we-"

"Over here is fine." I pointed towards the couch. The dining room table was untouched, four chairs with no cushions, spotless and restained black streaks. I rarely sat at the table. The couch was my go-to for eating and inviting guests over.

Sugar went to put her bag on the table, instead she pulled it up right when I pointed to the living room. She seemed off, I saw the way her corner lip curled up. Then it disappeared.

That was the wrong choice!

"We can sit at the table if you want-"

"Couch is fine," she cut me off. Her back was towards me. I couldn't see her facial expressions just could hear her inflection. Went up at the end. She dropped the bag, the straps hit the couch's edge; she opened and pulled out the plastic container. I watched as she organized and placed it on the coffee table.

With a plop, she was done.

Her hands pressed down into the soft material.

"You going to sit down?"

"Yes." I fumbled with the hem of my shirt.

I shouldn't.

"But first, what do you want to drink?"

"What do you have?" she said, bending her knees to have her feet on the couch.

I went over to my fridge. Pulled open the door, the plastic walls to keep the cool temperature made a friction noise, I grimaced at my choices.

"Beer. What appears to be milk. Orange juice?" I said, "Or water. That's a good go to."

Sugar laughed. "I'll have water."

Good choice.

I grabbed a glass cup from my half empty cupboard. Hit the water dispenser, filled up the glass, and brought it to her.

"Thank you." Her fingers touched mine. "Where's yours?"

"I'm good."

"Oh." She blinked. Her eyes looked away.

I sat down on the other side of the couch. Good measurement apart. Thighs at a good distance. A foot away.

"So," she said, after taking a sip of water. "What's the news?"

News. Oh yes!

"Mr. Dalton said the pilot will be released in July. Right now, they're focusing on advertisement. Most of it is the pop-up ads, ironically I've seen a few on the dating apps."

I chuckled. Dry and felt forced.

Sugar joined. "Have to say that's pretty clever." She paused. "Was it Penelope's idea?"

"Nope." I said fast. "She left."

"Oh."

The soft instrumental music soothed the quietness between the two of us. Oboe sang in a high and legato rhythm, it created a space.

What do I say?

"A man takes control of the situation."

Go away . . .

"My co-workers have been bugging me ever since the articles came out. They've asked for the date," Sugar said, before drinking her water. "They'll be happy to hear. Half of me wants to pretend to not know. And the other half. . . I just don't want to give them an answer."

"Why?"

"Well," Sugar resituated in her spot, "I feel like it'll show them . . . something personal. And a side of me they don't know. Whatever Mr. Dalton and company wants people to see. And my coworkers know me. They'll see me in a different way." Sugar looked at me. "I hope that makes sense."

I grinned.

"It does," I nodded. "I felt that way especially with my solo interviews."

Sugar leaned forward. Her elbow leaned on the couch, the right palm of her hand held up her chin.

"I'm glad I'm not the only one," she mumbled.

I rubbed the back of my neck. "I'm glad too."

"Too sentimental."

"I-" I took a breath in.

Will she listen? Will Sugar use it against me? Like Penelope?

Sugar lightly smiled. Her eyelids blinked in a slow motion, her eyes could drown me, warm chocolate and caramel mix.

"In my last interview. They asked about the process. You. The ladies. And my past." I laced my fingers together. My leg started to bounce.

"Past?" Sugar asked, "You mean during Champion?"

"Before that. Before auditions and high school. When I was younger. They asked about my parents." I rubbed my hands together, ridges on my palm produced friction. "Champion told me what to say. What happened during my young years, they created a narrative: a perfect family with an always even cut lawn, the grass was watered every day, the front porch cleaned and protected rocking chairs from the weather. A father who taught me football and attended games, even in the rain, snow, sleet, and awful humid heat. A mother who was slow to anger, listened and embraced me."

"The truth is. One day my dad was there. And the next he wasn't. I was old enough to know that this wasn't a normal family event. Especially when my friends asked and asked, 'Want to go to the movies?' I'd say, 'I can't.' 'Why?' 'Mom's working.' Then they'd say, 'Where's your dad?' I had to tell them, 'I don't know.' He left in his navy truck with rust around the rims. He'd say it's a piece of shit. But it was his piece of shit."

I looked away from Sugar.

"My mom and I were in limbo. We couldn't escape this mental state, will he come back? Sometimes during the night, I'd hear my mom cry. She was on the phone, kept on apologizing for jumping to conclusions. Said she'd made a mistake. Said she missed him. A-and I missed him too. I never told her that. It continued up until high school when she stopped all together. She'd use dad's name whenever I disappointed her like with having sixteen unexcused absences, F + on my mathematics quiz, or staying in my room too long. As if he had authority over me. He was non-existent."

"Then," I brushed my thumb over my lower lip, "that must mean I'm non-existence to him too. Right? After all, he had chosen not to be in my life anymore. I can forget all the stupid life sayings, girl advice, be tough; do this, do that; be a man. Whatever the hell that means." I started to cry. The stinging in my eyes. My throat constricted. "Whatever fight my parents had, whatever truly happened between them, he decided to not forgive. If that's what being a man is, I don't want that. I promised myself I would be forgiving. I wanted to be nothing like my father."

Why am I crying? This didn't happen in the interview.

"You're too emotional."

I felt Sugar's gaze. Goosebumps prickled on my forearms.

Go away Dad. You're gone. No more. I'm fine.

A half cry and laugh came from me. Almost like I realized my words and my reality. I wiped my tears off using my sweater sleeve on my arm, I sighed. "Which, I totally screwed that up. With Penelope . . . took way too long."

A gentle, warm hand touched my knuckles.

"You are August. Not your father. Not your mother. You. The fact you've recognized this, this has been tucked away so long in your heart. It shows you are August, who doesn't know how to skate and yet stepped out and did it. You enjoy melted buckeyes, sacrifice time during the holidays to help me babysit, the fact you're opening up and sharing this with me. It shows."

"Don't listen to her."

She's right. It is done.

She came closer. The space between us closed in. Her whole hand fit over the top of mine, her thumb rubbed my wrist. It felt nice. Her words provided comfort, warmth spread to my fingers and my heart.

However . . . the seed of doubt.

But . . . am I being selfish? Did I really do it because I wanted to help Sugar? Even though . . . I keep thinking about kissing her. Being with her. This isn't selflessness.

"Thanks, Sugar." I half-heartedly smiled.

"I mean it," Sugar's voice rose, "You've."

She licked her lips. "Changed."

I hope so.

I nodded.

Getting up from the couch, I removed my hand from hers. I kept my back towards Sugar. I sniffled. I could feel the snot wanting to run down my cheeks. My eyes began to focus again. My whole body felt hot; armpits, legs, hands, face, everything felt scorching hot. Soreness replaced the tears because I wiped them away too hard.

Need to move on. I'm okay. Sugar's good. Go over the news. I can put on the short clip. I do need to order food.

I pulled out my cell phone, dialing LaDaisies Pizza.

"I don't have much food. We can watch the short teaser Mr. Dalton gave me. I can order pizza for us first, what would you-"

I turned around when I spoke this.

I almost hit her.

Somehow. Sometimes she must have gotten up from the couch and came behind me.

I didn't hear her.

I didn't know.

Until I felt her lips on mine.