I stare ahead and lean my elbow on the door, running my hand through my hair. It’s not my decision, though. Is it? Pushing her around doesn’t make me any better than anyone else in her life.
And I don’t want to be someone else who stifles her. She’ll end up resenting me, too. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about relationships—any relationship—is that no one should wear the pants. You have to know when to come in strong and when to back off. Both of you.
Give and take. Share the power.
I ease on the brake and slowly veer to the right side of the road, coming to a stop as a car speeds past me.
Her eyes shift, but she still won’t look at me.
God, what she must be thinking.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my tone quieter and calmer now. “I didn’t mean to command you like that.” I drop my hands from the wheel and try to slow down my heart a little.
“Cole is staying with…” I trail off, knowing she knows who he’s staying with. “For the time being,” I finish. “You’ll have space, and you can have the other spare room. It’s your space. You like my house, right?”
She takes in a breath, searching for words. “Yes, but…”
“I like having help around the place,” I explain. “And it’s nice to come home and not have to make dinner every night. We keep the same arrangement.”
She pauses, and fear creeps up. Maybe I read her wrong, after all. Maybe she’s just trying to find a way to get me off her back. Maybe she really doesn’t want to stay at my house.
“Will you be happy? At my house? Honestly?” I ask. “Happier than back there?”
The silence stretches between us, and I’m beginning to feel stupid. Like I misread everything and she wasn’t getting comfortable under my roof.
But all the times I caught glimpses of her this week—lighting her candles, working in the garden, having a morning swim, or cooking in the kitchen and bobbing her head to whatever awful hair band she’s listening to this week—it seemed like she was at home, you know? She was smiling so much, we’d gotten comfortable enough to joke around, and she was even getting mischievous on me, adding stupid sprouts and avocado to the turkey sandwich in my lunch the other day.
I smile a little, thinking about it.
I don’t want her to trade down because she thinks she’s unwanted at my house or she’s imposing. I want to make sure she knows that she doesn’t have to leave.
I blink long and hard, suddenly weary. And I fucking hate the idea of her in that shithole with no one there who’s going to appreciate anything she does.
I drop my eyes and my voice. “Please don’t make me leave you there.”
I see her head turn in my direction, and I know how I must sound.
“Please,” I whisper again.
She’s staring at me, but I refuse to look at her, because I’m afraid my eyes will say something more or give away something teetering on the edge of my brain that I don’t want to face yet.
She’s happy at my house, she’s safe there, she has a bed, and there’s no fucking mice. It’s that simple.
Yeah. It’s that simple.
After a moment, I hear her draw in a calm breath as she reaches over and grabs her seatbelt, fastening it.
I swallow.
“Fright Night is streaming on Netflix,” she says. “Half pepperoni and half taco?”
I break into a smile. Turning to her, I see her blue eyes looking at me with the same easy humor she had when we were cutting watermelon the other night.
I shift the car into gear again and nod. “Call it in,” I tell her. “We’ll pick it up on the way home.”
Jordan
We come to new terms.
I’m a tenant now, essentially, and while the end goal is to live here to save money for my own place eventually, I can’t live off him like I was. Maybe I could’ve made excuses when I was Cole’s girlfriend, but now, this needs to be fair. No matter how much he balks.
“I don’t need your forty bucks a month for the gas bill, Jordan.”
“Then let me pay the electric bill.”
“Why would I tell you to stay here to save money and then ask you to spend more money?”
“I am saving money. And I can keep saving money while paying at least one bill, Pike.”
“Or you could not pay any bills, save even more money, and just be out of here faster.”
And then that pissed me off, like maybe he really didn’t want me here, after all.
“No, wait.” He flinches. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just…I don’t need your money, okay? Let’s stop talking now. Please?”
But we didn’t. We kept bickering until he finally relented and let me have the gas bill and the grocery bill, although he did make me promise to not replace his snacks with anything organic or fat free, to which I agreed. If he catches me sneaking in fair trade coffee and almond milk, I’ll just tell him I forgot.
Taking the broom out to the front porch, I lift up the welcome mat and shake it out before hanging it over the railing. Rain pours down outside like a torrent, and the street looks like the whitewash of ocean waves as the falling raindrops kick up and spatter against the ground.
I wonder how well Pike will be able to see the roads on his way home. It’s still only about one in the afternoon, though, and it’s still light out, although pretty gray, so it might stop raining before he’s off work.
I swipe the broom across the wooden porch, the overhang protecting it from getting wet. The air is balmy and thick, my skin feeling damp even though no rain is hitting me under the awning. My T-shirt sticks to my stomach a little, and I tuck my hair behind my ear because it’s tickling my arms. Looking up, I see Kyle Cramer pulling his BMW into his driveway, covering his head with his briefcase as he dashes to his front porch.
He notices me and flashes a smile. I give a little wave.
I wonder why he and Pike aren’t friendly.
He disappears inside, and I finish cleaning up the tiny amount of dirt and thistles on the porch before laying the welcome mat back down.
In addition to the gas and grocery bill, I’d taken on responsibility for the downstairs of the house: dusting, vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, keeping the kitchen tidy, although he has to do the dishes when I cook, and I only have to do them when he cooks. Which, actually, he hasn’t done at all in the three days since I’ve come back to stay here. I kind of realized at some point over the last few weeks he really only makes meals from the frozen food section in the grocery store—or canned soup and stews—so I’ve just taken over meals completely and he does dishes, and I’m cool with that.
I also do the garden, while he handles the lawn, pool, and sprinklers. Our rooms are our own responsibilities, but I clean my bathroom, and he keeps the basement in order.
Setting up the individual chores was almost too good to be true. I thought for sure he’d flake, and I’d end up cleaning up crap he left in areas that I was tasked with keeping tidy.
But it hasn’t happened. He tosses his boots in the closet after work, picks up the T-shirts he discards if he gets too hot, and I never have to bug him to get his clothes out of the dryer. I realize I’ve never lived with a man who had lived on his own before me.
Until now, that is. Pike’s used to taking care of himself and his things, because there’s no one else to do it for him. It’s like a whole new world.
Walking back in the house, I stick the broom into the closet and head upstairs to sort my dirty clothes. Cole’s old bedroom—our old bedroom—sits vacant, since he hasn’t been back since he left. I’m not sure what he’s been wearing the past few days, and I don’t know if he’s talked to his dad, but one thing is for sure. He’ll be back eventually.
I put up with as much as I did because Cole was a friend and not just a boyfriend. Most girls—if they’re smarter than me, and that wouldn’t be hard, mind you—get tired of deadbeats real fast. Knowing he and Elena probably won’t make it is the only consolation for the hurt. He jumped right out of my bed and into hers, didn’t he?
But maybe he did me a favor. Would I want him back? No. I don’t want to hate him, and I know he’s better than this, but we pushed it, because we needed to grab onto something once upon a time. We forced what wasn’t there, not because we needed each other, but because we needed someone. We were always better friends.
I feel like I can breathe now. And if he has a problem with me being here, I’ll let his dad deal with it.
Across from Cole’s room, I open the door to the other spare room—my new room—and pull my collapsible laundry basket out of the corner.
I love my new space. There was already a day bed in here, so I just went out and bought a new bedding set. I could’ve moved my old one from Cole’s bed, since it’s mine anyway, but I wanted to start new. Nothing to remind me of who I was with him. I moved the rest of my stuff out, closed his door, and haven’t been back in.
Pike and I went to IKEA and picked out a dresser—which I paid for, but we needed his truck to move—a bedside table, and a cushioned chair. I had a little fun decorating, since I didn’t need to consider anyone else but myself. There’s twinkle lights weaved into my wrought-iron bedframe, some fun pillows and a lamp, and a painting I bought from a street vendor in New Orleans when I went with my sister. Pike’s pal Dutch even brought by his old vintage Panasonic cassette boombox radio for me that he found cleaning out his parents’ garage a couple days ago. I guess Pike told him about the tapes.
“Jordan!” a bellow comes from downstairs.
I drop the white shirt I was sorting and jerk my head, hearing the screen door slam against the frame downstairs.
My heart thuds a little harder.
Leaving the room, I jog down the stairs. Pike’s by the front door, pulling out his jacket from the closet. Water streams down his face and the golden skin of his tattooed arms, and his hair is stuck to his scalp. He pulls his jacket over his head and his soaking wet T-shirt.