She died two weeks before his first application deadline, and if Nathan weren’t grieving, he might have remembered her advice. Instead, he deleted his admissions forms as soon as the money she left him hit his bank account.
The real estate listing was for a self-service laundromat with a studio apartment attached. Later, he would wonder if he was seduced by the business model: the automated service, the small and sporadic customer base, the ease of living and working in the same building. He’d made a cash offer for a business that wasn’t profitable, instead of doing the smart thing and calling his brother before he signed any paperwork. Joe would have swooped in with his big MBA brain and a PowerPoint presentation to lecture Nathan about how the local market didn’t justify the overhead. But Nathan had always been better at gut feelings than thinking things through. Yes, the decision was impulsive, but he had learned a lot over the last eight years. Front loaders were more efficient than top loaders, even though they cost more up front. Providing coin-operated machines meant people without a bank account wouldn’t have to buy prepaid cards to wash their clothes. Owning it also made him feel useful to people who were often overlooked in Oasis Springs, like frazzled single mothers waiting for a landlord to fix their dryer, or overworked domestic workers venting about their employers’ finicky appliances.
The day-to-day didn’t take much effort. Nathan usually worked out with Joe before opening the doors at six a.m. Then he’d take a cup of coffee to the back office and work on unfinished sketches while listening to Spotify at a volume that would eventually destroy his hearing. Sometimes it took a while to get started. He’d been drawing for years now, but whenever he touched the tip of his pencil to paper, a voice whispered, Still drawing wolves and wizards? Aren’t you embarrassed? It sounded a lot like his father.
Nathan heard a grunt followed by a string of hard clangs that usually signaled his washers were under attack. He eyed the customers scattered throughout the room. One was a middle-aged housekeeper he’d seen three times this week. A young white woman stood in the corner folding towels with AirPods wedged into her ears. And then there was the short Black woman on his left. It took him a minute to recognize Rachel Abbott as his washer’s attacker. Judging from the hard furrow of her brow, it wasn’t about to escape her wrath anytime soon.
She had ditched the cocktail dress for a T-shirt and tight jeans. Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail that made it look like she rolled out of bed with no fucks to give. Wild, wispy curls framed her neck.
“Damn it!” She slammed the door closed so hard the sound echoed, startling the other customers into nervous frowns. Nathan moved forward as she grabbed a bottle of detergent. “Fuck you, you… machine.”
“Whatever happened, I’m sure it’s not the washer’s fault.”
She spun around and her eyes widened when she saw him. “You! What are you doing here?” Her voice was rushed and a little breathless, like she was excited. Or maybe that was just him. His pulse was racing.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Her gaze shifted to the other customers. The blond woman still looked oblivious, but the housekeeper kept glancing in their direction. Rachel tensed. “I’m doing my laundry.” She jabbed a thumb at the washer. “This thing keeps eating my change.”
Nathan moved to a different washer. “Try this one. It’s credit cards only.” He tapped the sign. “You also need to put your clothes in first. They have sensors that adjust the settings based on what you put inside.” He pointed to her clothes on the floor. “May I?”
“Sure.” She stepped aside and avoided his eyes. “Do you work here?”
Anyone else would have gotten a curt yes in response, but Nathan replied, “I own the place,” with a cockiness he didn’t actually feel. Twenty-four hours after the drive-in and he was still trying to impress her.
“You own it? Seriously?” She grimaced and quickly added, “Sorry! You’re just so young.”
He was relieved she hadn’t said something ignorant about him not looking like a business owner. She didn’t seem like the type, but she was still an Abbott.
“I’m not that young.” He leaned back against the washer and folded his arms. She stared at his bicep, and he flexed a little for her benefit. “Plus, I’ve got a birthday coming up, so I think they’ll let me keep it.” The last bit of tension vanished from her face, and her eyes softened to umber velvet.
“Don’t let last night’s drunken tragedy fool you. I’m not that young either.”
“You weren’t tragic.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“I’m not that nice.”
Her eyes raked over him, lingering in places—his chest, his shoulders—before returning to his face again. “I don’t buy you as a tough guy.”
“It’s the dimple, right?” He rubbed his left cheek.
She laughed. “You’re right. It’s mesmerizing. I’ll try to focus on the right cheek instead.”
“Good. And you’re gonna pay me for that wash.” He nodded to the machine working behind her. “It’s on your tab.”
“My tab?” She scanned the room. “What kind of laundromat is this?”
“The friendly neighborhood kind.” He grinned. “No cash, no problem. It’s also a good excuse to come back and visit the next time your housekeeper goes on vacation.”
Her smile dimmed. “How do you know I don’t do my own laundry?”
Because he’d lived here long enough to know that women like her rarely separated their own colors and whites. But they also didn’t look at him the way she did, like some decadent dessert they were tempted to try. They never looked at him at all. “You’re right. I shouldn’t assume.”
“It’s been a while since I used a laundromat. But I’m not from here.” She said it like it meant something. Or like she needed it to.
“Where are you from?”
“Southeast DC. My neighborhood was mostly rental houses and apartments. Not like this place. At all.”
“Yeah, I bet.” She kept glancing out the window at his car parked near the entrance. “Are you a gearhead?” he asked.
She jerked her eyes back like she’d been caught. “Me? No. I don’t know what’s under the hood or anything.”
“But you like cars.”
“I like those cars. Loud and temperamental tanks that might kill you in a crash.” She paused. “Or save you, depending on where it lands. And the body… a hard frame with soft curves. I love a contradiction.”
Nathan thought about her public persona. How rigid and rehearsed she seemed, adopting the same pose in every photo. But last night she’d been tearstained and vulnerable. A hard frame with soft curves. His eyes drifted lower to the swell of her hip. She caught him looking. They stared at each other with lust flooding the air like dopamine. Her face reddened and she turned away.
“How long do these usually take?” She gestured toward the washer. “I could probably come back.”
If she left, he might never see her again. Not alone like this. Not after that look. “Do you want to go for a ride?”
She froze. “With you? Don’t you…” She scanned the empty room. “Don’t you have to work?”