Free Melted and Whipped by Cleo Pietsche

in to help,” he says.
    “You don’t have to.”
    “I know, but I’m not very good at sitting around in a crisis.”
    A crisis. The words echo as I unlock the front door and walk up the narrow creaking steps. They’re painted white, which puts the filth in stark relief. I’m far past being embarrassed, though. A crisis .
    This is a crisis, though I don’t want to think about it, can’t let myself…
    “It will only take me a few minutes,” I say numbly. “Please make yourself comfortable.” I gesture vaguely at the couch, which is the opposite of comfortable, as Porter will soon discover for himself, and I drop my purse onto the coffee table.
    My apartment is tiny, one step up from a studio. The kitchen and living room are all one room, and I’ve got a bedroom barely the size of one of the gondolas on the mountain. The bathroom doesn’t even have space for a tub. In a resort town like this one, real estate is worth more than gold.
    I know that later I’ll be ashamed of my shabby furnishings, the mismatched curtains, the three-quarter-sized refrigerator, the bare light bulb that hangs over the center of the main room. My home isn’t nice, and I haven’t done much with it. To be honest, short of dousing everything in gasoline and shooting a flaming arrow into the couch, I’m not sure there’s anything I could do to improve it.
    My obsolete laptop, the one I bought a few months before I was laid off, is sitting on the table. I open the cover and tap impatiently on the trackpad, willing it to rouse itself.
    “You’re flying into New York?” Porter asks, coming to stand beside me.
    I nod as I turn my wooden chair to the side so I can rest my left knee on it. My computer screen flickers, and I click on the browser.
    “If you like, I can search for flights while you pack. It’s more efficient.” He’s already pushing into my space.
    “I don’t think there are that many leaving in the next two hours,” I say.
    “To go to New York? There’s one in forty-five minutes and another in… It doesn’t matter. I can get you on that one. It will connect in Chicago.”
    Maybe under different circumstances I’d protest, but it will save me a lot of time if he looks for flights, and he clearly knows the route well. I guess it makes sense if he’s been commuting back and forth.
    “Thanks. The computer’s kind of slow,” I say apologetically.
    “I’ll survive. Go pack what you need.”
    I hurry into my bedroom, open the shallow closet and stand on tiptoe to reach the large backpack on the top shelf. It’s not the kind used for hiking, but it’s still roomy enough to hold what I’ll need for a couple of days. Normally I could borrow clothes from my sister, but… not now.
    I throw in a pair of jeans, two shirts, some socks, bras, and underwear. I normally wouldn’t bother with toiletries—I’m sure it won’t be a problem if I stay at my dad’s house—but the waterproof bag is still stocked from my last trip. I drop my toothbrush into the top and add it to the backpack.
    Phone charger.
    What else do I need?
    That’s everything. At the last minute I grab the paperback I’ve been slowly reading for the last few weeks.
    Zipping the bag closed, I mentally run through everything I could possibly need, but I think I’m covered. I switch off the light and return to the living room.
    Porter is standing next to the door. “Ready to go?”
    My gaze darts to my laptop. The cover is closed. “But—”
    “Hear me out,” he says. “I…” He looks uncomfortable.
    “There’s no room on the flights?”
    “No… I don’t know. I…” His gaze dips down for a moment, but then he raises his eyes to mine, and his hesitation is gone. “I have a private plane. I was going to return in two days anyway.”
    “Oh,” I say, equal parts shocked and horrified. “That’s…” Actually, I don’t know what that is. My mind can’t handle this on top of everything else, and I don’t know what to say, how to