“Make sure we don’t steal the soaps?” He’s irked now, or maybe he’s joking.

I try to laugh it off, not wanting to get into a scuffle.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. No one’s gonna steal the soaps, or the figurines, or whatever other tchotchkes are floating around.”

Sweetie?

He continues, but all I can hear in my head is that word. “Sweetie.” Clanking around all over the place.

“. . . My guys are honest guys. And I am, too.” He looks at me, suddenly serious.

“Yeah, I never . . . um, thought anything like that, actually . . .”

“If anything, you’re the one who needs looking after.”

This takes me by surprise.

Also, sweetie?

“Yeah, you.” He nods. “Little girl like you, all alone in this place.”

“Oh, it’s fine I’m—”

“Hell, I’m worried about you.” Again, he squares off, facing me. I realize he’s a bit of a space invader. Like, he’s not observing the stay-three-feet-away rule. He’s definitely a little too close for comfort.

“Oh, well. I’m adjusting, it’s—”

“Is there an alarm system or anything in here?” He looks around the doorway. Again, space invading.

“Um, I don’t think so. The professor . . . never said anything about it. I’m sure he would’ve.” I hadn’t thought about it. Honestly, this guy is officially freaking me out.

“Okay, this is what I’m gonna do. Every morning, when I come, I’m gonna check in. Make sure you’re alright. And at the end of the shift, before I leave, I’m gonna make sure you’re squared away, safe and sound. And . . . I’m gonna give you my number. In case there’s any trouble. Especially on weekends.” He nods, a dad nod, assuring.

“Um. Okay.” I guess he’s just trying to be nice?

Maybe he’s just a really nice guy.

But still . . . “sweetie.”

“Alright then. You take care.” He turns to join his crew, but then turns back. “Hey, you seen that hammer?”

“Excuse me?”

“That hammer. Still can’t find it,” he answers.

“Um, I don’t think so. I did look,” I assure him.

“Hmm. Weird.” He walks away, taking his baseball hat off and scratching his head. It’s a red Phillies hat. Of course.

I want to say something to him, a final witty note. But all I can think of to say is, “Do you like baseball?” which I think we can all admit is a pretty obvious thing to infer judging by his coaching kit as well as his baseball hat.

So, instead, I’ll just stand here looking natural in my sweatpants and wonder if he noticed the coffee stain on my T-shirt. From yesterday. No need to wash it, it’s just me here, right? Mostly.

I don’t know if I should be vaguely insulted or flattered by his sudden interest in my well-being. Or by “sweetie.” Whatever I’m supposed to be, it seems like I’m a little bit of both. That’s the thing about emotions, they’re never just one of this and one of that. Never pure mad. Or pure happy. It’s always a little bit of both. There should be more words to describe these things. Like bittersweet. Or sadjealous. Or gratefulinsulted. Maybe my problem is that there never seems to be the right word for what I’m feeling.