I gestured for him to follow and then slid open a set of doors situated in the wall between the kitchen and the bathroom. The washer and dryer, probably purchased the same year I was born, were just barely set inside the shallow rectangular closet.

“Still better than the Laundromat?” I asked.

“Yes, but I can go if you want me to.”

“Just turn it to whatever setting and pull the dial to start it.”

Taylor’s appreciative smile was actually a little—okay, a lot—cute. He followed my directions, turning the dial on the washer and pulling. The water began to pour out from the back of the drum. He bent down, grabbed several pairs of jeans, and threw them in.

I retreated to my bedroom, organizing my tips. I added half to the previous day’s collection in my wallet and the other half to the shoebox. After stashing both, I changed into a pair of sweatpants and an oversized gray T-shirt.

“Where are your jeans?” Taylor asked.

I stopped in my doorway, taken off guard by his strange question. I pointed to my bedroom. “In there on the floor.”

“There’s room in the washer,” he said, pouring in the laundry soap.

“My jeans don’t know your jeans well enough to be washed together.”

He chuckled and shook his head while he watched the basin fill with water and suds. “Did I do something to make you hate me? Or is this some kind of test?” He faced me. “Because I’m not trying to get into your pants, Ivy League. I’m just asking to wash them.”

I retreated to my bedroom, picking up the wad of denim next to my nightstand. Then I crossed the hall and ducked into the bathroom just long enough to pick through the dirty laundry for the other two pairs somewhere inside the pile.

“Here,” I said, handing him the jeans.

“This is it?” he asked, throwing them into the washer.

“Yes, so if you ruin them, I’m screwed.” I backed away from him and fell into the chair.

“I won’t ruin them. I’ve been doing laundry for a long time.”

“Your mom didn’t do it for you?”

Taylor shook his head.

“Good. Moms can really screw kids up that way. You’re lucky you never ended up crying over the washing machine because you couldn’t figure out how to turn it on.”

“Sounds like you know from experience.”

“The help did our laundry.” I waited for his reaction.

He had none.

“If your parents are so rich, why are you in this shithole?” he asked, pulling off his sweatshirt and throwing it into the washing machine, leaving him in just a thin, too-small T-shirt that read Eakins Football in faded letters.

I stared at him for a moment, fighting the inevitable smile creeping across my face. “They made bad choices.”