Just lucky.

She eyed him up and down, saw him trailing the bags that he’d lugged three stories up her walk-up steps, and he thought he might have really blown it.
“Are you planning to move in?”
“I-”  And he had nothing to say.
Not that it mattered.  “Get in here,” she said, and she pulled him – pulled him – by the shoulder into her apartment.
Good thing, too.  The commute back to the coast was such a long one.  He had it down to a science, of course – he just had to make it to the eight-fourteen from Penn Station.  That got him into Trenton at nine-forty-five, which gave him enough time to make it over to the SEPTA track for the nine-fifty-eight to Philly, which got him there just after eleven.  After that, he’d only have a half hour to kill until switching back onto New Jersey Transit for the eleven-forty-two – the last train of the night – for the coast.  If she’d tossed him – well, crap.  He couldn’t go back to Parnell’s not after already heading out.  He’d either have to sleep in a station or spring for a motel.  And at some of those stops along the line – Elizabeth, that cold armpit along the Jersey Turnpike that existed only to play host to chain outlets and Ikea, or Metuchen – it was hard to say which one would be worse.
But she hadn’t.  She had him over for dinner.  She let him stay.

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