by Carian Cole
“It’s beautiful. Really.”
“Lemme show you something I think your fupagus cat might like.”
Laughing at his massacre of my cat’s name, I follow him to the back of the house to a sunroom—all glass walls and ceiling—with tons of hanging plants and more perched on little tables.
“Wow!” I say. “This is so cool.”
“Thanks. My mom was into plants. It took me a while to not kill them all, but now they’re doing okay.” He moves across the room. “I’ve got an aloe plant.” He points to a row of little boxes. “And I’m growing some herbs over here. The legal kind, that is.” That devilish grin. “Do you cook?” A hint of hope tinges his words.
“Me?” I guess he forgot I haven’t been able to even get into the kitchen at home for a long time. Or the fact that I don’t eat much. “No, but I’ve always wanted to.”
“Well, if you want to experiment, I’ll be your guinea pig. I’m usually too tired after work to cook anything decent. If you want to. And if you decide you want to live here.”
His nervousness actually makes me feel better about this whole crazy situation. I think he feels just as awkward and unsure about it as I do, and that makes it feel more like we’re in this together, on common ground.
“I’d love to try to cook. I promise not to poison you.” I spin around the room happily. “Gus will love it in here.”
“Want to see the upstairs?”
I nod excitedly and he leads the way.
“Like I said, it’s still a work in progress up here.” He nods toward the spackle on the wall of the hallway. “But the bedroom and bathroom you’d be using is upgraded, never been used. This is the bathroom.” We stop in front of a white door and I take a quick peek inside. It takes some serious self-control for me not to squeal and jump up and down. A tile shower! A toilet! Double sinks! Everything is so clean—all white and light gray. And it all smells so fresh.
“Jude… this is awesome. I might live in that shower, just so ya know.”
His eyes glimmer with pride, as they should. He’s done a great job.
“As long as you keep it clean, I don’t care. That’s all I’d really ask for.”
“I will. I promise,” I say solemnly. I could never, ever wreck any of this. Not his trust or his pretty house.
“Right next door would be your bedroom. Sorry it’s not attached.”
Like that matters. There are a few feet between the doors, but it’s totally clean, a safe-to-walk-through, unobstructed walking area. This is like heaven for me.
He opens the door to reveal a room that’s very obviously a girl’s room with its pink walls. It’s devoid of any decor other than two white dressers, two night stands, and a full-size bed with a light-gray comforter.
“Um… did you paint this for me?” A shiver of unease slithers up my spine. Did he just assume I’d be moving in and paint it ultra-girly pink?
“No. God, no. I’d never willingly paint a room this color.” He rubs his hand across his face. “This was my younger sister’s room. I got rid of all her stuff and the old carpet, but she loved the color. I just couldn’t paint over it. Everything is brand new—the bed, the sheets and comforter, the dressers. I hate empty rooms. I furnished it long before I met you.”
I let out a quick breath of relief. “It’s pretty,” I say, not missing how his eyes shifted downward when he mentioned his sister. There’s definitely something he’s not saying. But that’s okay. I’m not here to pry into this guy’s personal life.
“You can repaint it if you want.”
“No,” I say, touching his arm. “I like it. It’s a happy color. I could definitely use that.”
The room is much bigger than mine at home, and the closet is bigger, too. The windows overlook the trees and flower gardens in the backyard. Soon the leaves will be vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges—the perfect New England view.
I walk around the room, lightly touching the furniture, then turn to him. He’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. His hair is still damp from his shower, some of it hanging over his eyes. The material of his black shirt is stretched over his arms and chest, which look pumped from working out earlier.
It’s hard to ignore all the ink, muscles, and how masculine he is. It’s a little intimidating. The only man I’ve ever lived with is my father, and he didn’t have such a large, captivating presence. But I’m going to have to get used to it if I want to live here.
And I do want to live here, very much. I want to move in right now.
“Skylar?”
“Huh?”
Oops. I’ve been standing here staring at him like an idiot. I hope I wasn’t making a dumb, dreamy face.
But his grin tells me yes, I was definitely making a face. “I asked if you want to go downstairs and talk about all this?”
My cheeks are suddenly warm, and my heart is fluttering with embarrassment. “Sounds good.” Shoving my hands into the front pocket of my sweatshirt, I smile and duck past him through the doorway.
When we settle in his kitchen, I’m worried I’m being rude by saying no to his offer of something cold to drink. People don’t realize how often they offer food and drink to each other and how hard it is for people like me to have to decline and fear insulting them. Food and drinks are social behaviors. Hopefully, with the doctor’s help, I can learn to get normal with all this sort of thing.
“Can I interest you in some bread, at least?” he half-jokes. “I have wheat bread.”
I shoot him a glance. “Jude. I’m fine. Please just sit down. You have to let go of the food stuff. I promise I’ll go to the doctor, and I’ll do my best to try to overcome my food and drink aversions. But you can’t force me.”
“I’m not trying to force you. I just feel bad.”
“I know, and it’s sweet and I appreciate it. But for the sake of both our sanities, let’s not play the ‘what can I get Skylar to eat or drink game.’ You can eat and drink in front of me, it doesn’t bother me.”
“It bothers me. It feels rude.”
“It’s not,” I assure him. “I can’t live here if I feel like I’m under a microscope. I’m not used to it, and it’ll freak me out.”
He leans back in the wooden chair and nods. “You’re right. We need less stress if we’re gonna live together, not more. Especially you. I’ll be cool.”
Oh my God. Am I really going to do this?
How can I not? If I stay at home, the house will get grosser. I can’t afford the medications and the doctor visits, so I’ll get sicker. I’m afraid of getting worse, and I don’t know how bad it can get. What will happen to me? What if I get so sick that I can’t work? I could wither away and die, locked away in my bedroom. It’ll take months for my mom to realize I’m dead. Gus will die, too.
My heart pounds, my head swims, my skin breaks out in a thin sweat. Why is it suddenly so hot? I wish I could take my sweatshirt off but I only have a bra on underneath. There’re so many windows, but none of them are open. I need air—
“You okay, Sparkles?”
I blink at Jude, who’s suddenly blurry.
“Skylar?” His face finally comes into my vision, and he’s narrowing his steel eyes at me. “You’re white as a ghost again.”
“I’m sorry… I feel dizzy.”
“Shit.” He pushes his chair back and goes to the sink, where he wets a clump of paper towels. “Put this on your forehead,” he says. I do as he asks, pressing the cold towels to my face.
“Try to drink this.” He twists the top off a bottle from the fridge and hands it to me. “It’s basically orange-flavored water. It has electrolytes. There’s nothing weird in it. Nothing that can go bad. I know I’m breaking our no-pushing-food-or-drinks deal, but I can’t let you pass out in my damn kitchen.”
“Okay,” I whisper, giving in. I vaguely remember drinking drinks like this when I was younger. I don’t like putting things in my mouth that are crayon colors, because I never thought that could be right or s
afe.
My fingers shake as I grip the bottle. Jude wouldn’t give me anything bad. I watched him twist the top off. I heard the little snap of the seal. This is a new, unopened drink. There’s a bathroom right down the hall if it makes me sick, and Jude’s already proven he’ll take me to a hospital if I were to get really sick.
I trust him.
Tentatively, I sip the cold, mildly sweet drink, and it’s not horrible. I wait for something bad to happen—what, I don’t know—but nothing does. It’s actually very refreshing. I wish it was clear and not bright orange, but as long as I don’t look at the color, I think I can drink it without freaking out.
“D-Do you have a dark mug you can pour it in? And a straw?” I ask.
Four seconds later, he’s pouring the flavored water into a tall, black mug and pops a green straw in it.
I smile in thanks and continue to drink with my eyes closed. The sweetness is nice. The lightheadedness starts to subside. Nothing bad is happening. “I think I was starting to have an anxiety attack,” I say. “I don’t think it’s the same as when I fainted last time.”
“Anxiety attack?” he repeats, plopping into the chair across from me. “Why? Are you scared to be here?”
Scared. Excited. Worried. Hopeful.
I lower my gaze to the dog curled up on a little rug in front of the sink, a faded teddy bear toy next to her. She’s content here. Loved.
“A little nervous. I think I’m scared about making the wrong decision.” I remove the damp towels from my forehead and place them on the table in front of me. “I’m so tired of living in that house. And feeling sick all the time. I’m afraid of what will happen to me if I stay there.”
“So am I,” he agrees softly.
“I almost didn’t start school this year,” I admit. “I was just going to drop out and work full time, so I could hopefully make enough money to rent a room or apartment.” I swallow more of the cold drink. “But I promised my grandfather I’d never drop out. I know it’s silly, but even though he’s gone, I’m afraid he’d know if I did it.”
“It’s not silly. You should stay in school. Even go to college. It’s so fuckin’ hard to get your shit together if you make bad choices when you’re young. Sometimes you can’t ever get out of the hole. Trust me, I’ve been there.”
“I feel like I’ve got one foot in that hole already.”
“That’s why I’m trying to help you.”
Twirling the straw in my drink, I study him across the table and try to figure out what his deal is. Why is he living here alone? Shouldn’t a good-looking guy his age be married already? Why didn’t he sell this big house and get something smaller? Why doesn’t he want to repaint that pink room? And why, why, why does he want to help me?
I lick my lips nervously. “I still don’t understand why you want to help me. I’m just a nobody.”
He recoils from my comment. “You’re not a nobody.”
“But you don’t even know me… Not really.”
“So? People help each other every day without really knowing them, don’t they?” He leans his elbows on the table, his intense gray eyes fixed on mine. “Doctors help patients. People carry your bags at the store. Some donate money to strangers. They stop to help if your car’s stuck on the side of the road. There are good people in the world, Skylar. People who don’t want anything in return except to know that they helped someone else. I’ve had a shitty past. I’ve done some shitty things. Maybe I just want a chance to do something good for once. Is that so bad?”
I swallow hard under his raw sincerity. I don’t think anyone, ever, has been so deeply honest with me before. I still think there’s an underlying reason for him wanting to help me, but any thoughts I had that it might be for a sketchy reason are fading fast.
“And that’s all this is for you? Just a random good deed?”
He leans back in the chair again and pushes his sleeves up his arms. “Yeah. That’s all.” But his rough voice doesn’t hide what his eyes are saying—this act of kindness means something more to him.
“Well, I guess I’m lucky, then, aren’t I, Lucky?” I try to lighten the mood with a smile.
He flashes his cocky grin. “Maybe a little.”
Taking a deep breath, I put the mug on the table and push it back a few inches. “So, if we do this… how does this work? What’s next?”
A myriad of wedding scenes from movies flash through my mind.
“You sure you want to talk about it today? Do you want to wait until you’re feeling better?”
“I feel okay. I think we should talk about it now, so I can make a decision.”
He nods and his hair falls into his face, which he flicks backs with a quick, backward jerk of his head. “Okay. I guess first I’d have my lawyer draw up a contract saying that when we divorce, you aren’t entitled to any of my assets or alimony. Not tryin’ to be a dick, but I have to protect my business and my house.”
“I totally understand.”
“If you want something added to the contract, let me know.”
“Like what?
“I dunno. Like I can’t have half your stuff.”
I snort. “What, half of my beat-up car and my cat?”
“Yeah. I tell ya what… Just so it’s all fair, I’m going to have the contract say that neither one of us are entitled to each other’s assets, or anything we purchase while married. All of our finances will stay separate. I’ll pay whatever it is to add you to my insurance, but you’re responsible for any copays or anything not covered by insurance.”
“I’m good with that,” I reply, inwardly hoping I can afford to pay what isn’t covered. “What about rent?”
“I’m not gonna charge you rent, Skylar. I own the house.”
“Well, I can’t just live here for free. Even at home I pay some of the bills. I don’t want a free ride, Jude.”
He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “Fair enough. How ’bout you do the shopping and pay for the groceries? I hate shopping so that’ll be a big help for me.” His gaze travels around the room. “And you can brush the dog.”
“Can I water the plants and clean the house?”
“You’re not a maid. I don’t want or expect that.”
“I want to do it.”
“You can do it if you want to, but that’s on you. I don’t want anything from you.”
“I know. It’ll just make me feel good to do something. Otherwise, I’m going to feel guilty as shit. I won’t go in your room or bathroom, though.”
“Deal,” he says. “Then I suppose we pick a date, get a marriage license, and we arrange for an officiant. There won’t be any guests or witnesses, just us.”
“Okay.”
I was never the little girl who dreamed of a princess wedding and a flowing white gown, so I’m not surprised at how calm my voice sounds; as if this is a totally normal conversation and not the craziest thing my brain has ever had to process.
And that’s saying a lot.
“Do you smoke? Drink?” he asks.
I’m taken aback by the random question. “I’m not old enough to drink.”
“Oh.” The corner of his mouth tugs down. “My bad. I forgot you’re only eighteen.”
“I wouldn’t drink even if I was old enough. And I’ve never smoked.”
“Obviously I’m a smoker, but I never smoke in the house. Once in a while I’ll toss a beer back. I come home and crash on the couch with the dog every night. Just so you know I’m not throwing parties here. It’s always quiet.”
With his long hair, endless ink, and rugged, sexy looks, I never would’ve thought he’d be the quiet, domestic type. I pictured him hanging at bars or strip clubs.
I’m relieved to find out I was wrong.
“I’m quiet, too,” I say. “So is Gus. We won’t bother you. I’m not dating anyone. Me and Megan usually hang at her house. All I want to do is get better, get out of that house, graduate, and get my life on track. I don’t party. I’m usually in
bed by ten every night.”
He winks at me and my heart does a strange, baby-goatish gallop. “No wonder you’re not dating.”
“Thanks. Jerk.” I kick him playfully under the table.
“Just kidding,” he says. “I didn’t think you were into any of that stuff. You seem way too levelheaded.”
“This is starting to feel like a really weird interview.”
He lets out a laugh and throws his head back a little, exposing his neck tattoos. There’s a small, green four-leaf clover just below his ear that I love. “I promise this is as awkward as it’ll ever get. I’m not going to give you a hard time.”
“I’m not going to drive you crazy or do dumb things,” I promise. “You won’t even know I’m here. I’ll stay in my room.”
“You don’t have to stay in your room. You can hang wherever you want. It’s a big house. You’ve been confined to one room for too long.”
I slowly shake my head back and forth with disbelief. “I can’t believe we’re really going to do this. This is crazy, right?”
“It is. Not gonna lie. But it’ll only be as crazy as we make it. If we’re cool about it, it’ll be fine. Just two people living together, married on paper so you can see a doctor and get out of hell house. No big deal.”
I let that sink in. It’s not a big deal. “Okay. You’re right.”
“I do have one request,” he says, clasping his hands together in front of him. I can’t help but study the designs and letters tattooed on them. “This is a deal breaker.”
“Uh oh.” I narrow an eye at him. “What is it?”
“I need to meet your mother. I have to tell her myself what we’re doing and why.”
My stomach spins with anxiety. “Jude, no—”
“Skylar, I have to. It’s the right thing to do. She’s your mother.”
“She won’t even give a shit what I’m doing! She never has.” I vaguely remember my mom being loving and attentive when I was very young, but those memories have faded very far into my mind’s vault.
“Maybe, maybe not. Doesn’t matter. You might be eighteen, but you’re still her kid, and I can’t just let you move in with me, and marry me, without sitting face-to-face with your mother.”