by D. R. Graham
I still have the key to the Palo Alto house. Easton said they’d be out of town for two days. I could maybe stay there and find a place before they get back. The guys were nice enough. Polite. Fun. All attractive, which is unrelated to this train of thought, yet notable. And they’re easy going. They wouldn’t care if I crashed there. But it sort of feels like taking advantage of them.
There really are no other vacancies near the school—at least not any that would be better than the motel. A girl in my last class said there is a room for rent in the house she lives at. I wrote her number on the back of the deli receipt. It’s actually cheaper than the Palo Alto place, but smaller, too. And a forty-minute bus ride to the school. Plus, it’s her and two guys. So, not really that much more suitable. And it’s a little early to call her up.
I pace as I think and become increasingly annoyed with my dad. My accommodation situation wouldn’t even be an issue if he hadn’t blocked the money in my savings account when he found out I was applying to Stanford. His name is on the account, but it’s my money from my last ten birthdays, my job as a department store cashier, and my inheritance from my grandfather. It’s not a lot of money but will cover my living expenses for a few years. So frustrating. And unfair. In fact, my sister never even had to use her savings because Dad paid for her entire nursing education. He also bought her a condo because she went to the school he wanted her to go to. Whatever. It’s fine if he doesn’t want to pay out of his pocket for me to take something he doesn’t approve of, but the money in my savings account is mine. And, unfortunately, the scholarship funds haven’t been deposited into my personal account yet. Sorting out the scholarship and banking issues will probably take several more one-hour line-ups. And possibly a lawyer to deal with my dad. I’m not looking forward to any of it.
I’m itchy.
The stores aren’t open across the street. Hopefully the restaurant on the other side of the parking lot opens at five. A sketchy looking guy sitting at the bus stop is staring at me. Maybe I should go into the office.
The fifty-something clerk is asleep behind the counter, so I sit on a chair next to the tourism pamphlets. They’re so old. It looks like they haven’t been restocked since the nineties. The coffee is burnt to the bottom of the pot, the plastic plants are covered in a layer of dust, and the ceiling has creepy holes in it, like a camera is hidden in it, or a creature. I’m for sure going to have nightmares about this place at some point.
The clerk snores himself awake and blinks groggily at me. “Hey there. I didn’t hear you come in. You need something?”
“Do you have jumper cables?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?” I shoot up out of the chair. I was half-joking when I said it and honestly didn’t think he would. “That’s fantastic.”
“Are you checking out?”
“Yes. Please.” I slide the key across the counter. He already made me pre-pay for the night so it’s just a matter of signing a piece of paper and I’m free to go.
“I’ll get my truck and meet you around front.”
Yay.
It feels like I’m breaking and entering into the Palo Alto house. And, apparently, I am. Easton didn’t mention anything about an alarm, but I hear beeping. Uh, oh. How long do they give you? Thirty, sixty seconds? I don’t even know where the panel is. Shoot. I’m going to end up in jail, and none of us have any money to bail me out. Ending up a convict will absolutely support my dad’s argument that moving here was a bad idea.
Okay, stop panicking. Where’s the panel? It sounds like it’s in the hall that leads to the garage. I sprint and quickly open the cover. 1234, nope. 0000, nope. 9999, nope. How many chances do they give you to screw up? At least there’s no rent in jail. Think, Della. What would three cowboys choose as their alarm code? Boots? Horse? Bronc? Spurs? Or, how about 2057. The house address? Nope. How about the address backwards?
Ha. Bingo. It’s disarmed. Woohoo. I’m a genius. Running man. Sprinkler. Booty bounce. Whoa, slip and hit my knee on the tile. Ouch. Okay, dancing is not my strong suit, not even celebratory jigs. I’m going to stop that now.
The light flicks on. “Hey.”
Bah! Sweet Mother of Pearl. I gasp, clutching my chest to prevent my heart from leaping out of it. Easton fills the width of the hallway. When I notice the baseball bat on his shoulder I instinctually step back.
He chuckles and places the bat on the floor, leaning it against the wall. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you were an intruder.”
The sight of him causes adrenaline to gush through my veins. Not the bad kind from the thought of being mistaken for a burglar and attacked by a massive, muscular man with a bat. The good kind from only the thought of the massive, muscular man part. A man who happens to be smiling as if he’s glad I’m the intruder.
“I didn’t realize you’d be moving in so late.” He smiles and glances over his shoulder at the clock on the wall in the kitchen. “Or early.”
“I, uh, hi. Sorry. I would have called if it weren’t so late slash early. Long story. I should have called, but I thought you were supposed to be out of town.”
“I didn’t go. My dad’s not feeling that well after his last chemotherapy treatment, so I’m driving out there today to visit him.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” I rub my knee where it’s already starting to grow a lump and wonder if he witnessed me fall. “Do you think it’s serious? Your dad?”
He shrugs and leans against the wall with his arms crossed. “Probably. He’s a tough son-of-a-bitch, so if he’s showing pain it’s not a good sign.” He glances at me and his eyes search my face as if he’s trying to read my expression. “Sorry for cursing.”
“Oh, no. Don’t apologize.” I wave my hands in an attempt to ease his unnecessary repentance. “You don’t have to change who you are for me. I’m not a total prude.” Except that I kind of am. Or, always have been. I guess I don’t have to be.
He glances at the alarm panel. “You cracked the code?”
“Yeah. Eventually.” I can’t help but grin at my own cleverness.
“There you go. Women are smart enough to be engineers.” He turns and walks down the hall towards the kitchen. “Since we’re both up, you want some breakfast? I can make us an omelet.”
Hmm. Yeah, breakfast with Easton would be good. But I was only planning on crashing here and then leaving. Sneak in a shower, maybe a dip in the pool. Make one of those smoothies. And then gone. That was the plan. Easton being here is definitely not part of the plan. My reaction to Easton calling me smart is also unexpected. He has some sort of magic effect on me. Everyone probably feels that way around him. That’s why Stuart photographs him. He’s got that something special. It. He’s got it. Whatever it is. I like it. Which is why I am going to join him for breakfast in this very big, very empty house. Just the two of us. Alone. By ourselves.
Oh, grow up, Della. It’s eggs with a guy, not sex.
“So, you decided to move in,” he says as he clicks the gas element on. “I didn’t realize it would be at four-thirty in the morning.” He laughs. “Sorry I forgot to tell you the alarm code.” His hair is woven into one long braid that trails down his spine. He’s not wearing a shirt again, so every detail of his chiseled back is on display. Cooking half-nude. I guess he’s not particularly concerned about splatter burns. He probably doesn’t feel them. Like a superhero, impermeable to the injuries of mere mortals. He turns to face me with the spatula poised in the air, as if he’s waiting for something. Did I miss the question?
“Um, sorry, what did you say?”
“What made you decide to shack up with three men? I know it’s not because you found Chuck and BJ irresistibly charming.” He points at the fridge. “Cheese or no cheese in your omelet?”
“Cheese is good. I like cheese.”
He smiles and leans into the fridge to take out all the ingredients. Cheese is good. I like cheese. He must think I’m odd. I am odd. And how am I supposed to tell him t
hat I didn’t actually decide to move in, I was just going to be a squatter for the night? He looks over at me again because, yeah that’s right, I haven’t answered the question yet. It’s so hot in here. I pull off my sweatshirt and say, “Cockroaches.”
His eyebrows angle together as he attempts to decipher my cryptic conversation skills.
“Cockroaches made my decision for me.”
He places a bowl on the counter and stares at me with his mouth slightly agape. All of me. Not my face. My body. What’s he looking at? Okay, I know I’m in my pajamas, and my hair’s a mess, and my breath probably smells horrid, but I don’t think it warrants actual shock on his part.
“What happened to your skin?”
I glance down at my arms. They’re completely covered in red marks, like spider bites but all over in tracks. And they run along my chest. And, oh my goodness, all down my legs. What is that? I’m scarlet. It’s a cockroach disease. That’s why I’m so itchy. Even itchier now that I’ve noticed. My scalp is itchy now. I stand and jig around because it feels like insects are crawling all over me. “What is it?”
“It looks like bed bugs got you.”
“Bed bugs? Are they still on me?”
He chuckles. “Probably not, but they might be on your luggage and in your clothes.”
Yuck. Disgusting. Thank goodness I left my stuff in the trunk of my car and didn’t track them in here. “Ugh. That motel was wretched. I probably have lice and tics and scabies, too. I should go.”
“You don’t have to go. Just have a shower. I’ll make a Mojave remedy for you. It will take away the itch. You can wear one of my T-shirts and we’ll put all your other clothes in the washing machine. The dryer should kill any that might have hitched a ride.”
He’s sweet. And calm. I feel better already. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t plan to rent to a dirty vagrant with communicable diseases.”
“Chuck has worse.”
My eyes widen and my expression makes Easton laugh.
“I’m kidding. I think.” He laughs even harder and starts cracking the eggs, completely unfazed by my grossness.
I slink out of the kitchen and run up to the bathroom in my room. Well, not my room. The room that’s for rent. The room that I’m currently contaminating, so probably obligated to rent even if I don’t live in it. Oh, my gosh. Maybe my dad was right. Coming to Stanford was a bad idea and this is the universe’s way of sending me the message. Hey, Della, go home. Who do you think you are? Quit.
Only, I don’t want to quit. It’s not that bad. Sure, it’s only been two days and everything has pretty much gone wrong. It could be worse, though. In the grand scheme of things people deal with much worse hardships than broken down cars and unsanitary living conditions. But what if this is only the beginning and it does get worse? I can always drop out and go home. Think positive, Della. It could also get better.
I undress and step into the shower. The water pressure is amazing. Perfect for rinsing conditioner out. The guys probably don’t fully appreciate this minor detail. Maybe Easton does. His hair is nicer than mine. I want to live here. And Easton is already making breakfast and a Mojave remedy. Plus, my clothes need washing. Hopefully dry-cleaning kills bed bugs too, otherwise I’m going to have to burn most of my wardrobe. Oh well, nobody dresses formally here anyways.
You know, come to think of it, my sister lived with Alex before they were married. My parents eventually got used to it—not until they actually got married. But still. Precedence has been set. Okay, I’m staying. Until things get worse.
Chapter 4
Easton
Visiting my dad at the ranch was rough. Partly for the same reasons it has always been rough between us, and partly because it’s hard to see him struggling. When he was diagnosed with cancer I started going home more often to help out, and I thought maybe spending more time together would change some things between us, but it hasn’t.
I’m sitting in my truck in the driveway of the Palo Alto house, trying to adjust back into my life as a student. Della’s Volkswagen Bug is parked on the street, so she’s probably home. I was hoping the guys would already be back. For some reason I’m hesitant to be here alone with her. Not some reason. I know the reason. It’s because I haven’t stopped thinking about her since I left yesterday morning. Her completely natural fresh-face, her klutziness, the innocent way her cheeks flush over everything, and the sexy way she looked wearing only my T-shirt while her clothes were in the wash. That damn near killed me.
Even my dad could tell there was something up with me. I denied it, but the fact that I kept talking about her probably didn’t help convince him. The attraction is not good for the roommate arrangement. Neither is being alone with her.
A hand slams against my driver’s side window followed by Chuck’s ugly mug. He laughs because he startled me. “What’s up, Havie?” Without waiting for a response, he carries on to the front door behind BJ. Glad to have them as a buffer, I get out of the truck and grab my bag from the back. I better figure out a way to keep my attraction to Della locked up, quick.
As I enter the kitchen Chuck breaks into a run and shouts, “Honey, we’re home.” He cannonballs past Della who is stretched out on a lawn chair in the backyard. BJ also jumps straight into the pool with his clothes on to cool off from their road trip. Della was reading a textbook but puts the book down and pulls on a long-sleeve beach cover-up over her head to hide her white bikini. She notices me over her shoulder and moves a towel self-consciously to hide her legs, which are still speckled from the bed bug bites.
“Hey,” I say and pull up a chair next to her, trying to play it cool. Unfortunately, being close to her has the reverse effect. I’ve definitely never felt this way before. I’m in so much trouble.
“Hi,” she says softly with a sideways glance and her trademark blush. “How’s your dad?”
I lean back and run my hands through my hair as I watch the guys horsing around in the pool. “He’s feeling better now. The chemotherapy takes a lot out of him, though, so I did some work around the ranch to let him rest until he got his strength back.”
“What type of cancer does he have?”
“Non-Hodgkin lymphoma.” I stare at my clasped hands for a while, then glance at her. “They caught it early, so hopefully it will turn out okay.”
“I’m sure it will. How about your mom? How’s she holding up?”
“Uh.” I hesitate because Chuck and BJ don’t even know anything about my mom. Not sure if it’s because they never asked, or I never told. I lower my voice so only Della can hear and say, “My mom was killed by a drunk driver when I was ten. It’s just my dad and me.”
Della’s lips press together sympathetically and the space between her eyebrows creases. Her eyes meet mine as if she’s searching for something. Or maybe she’s not searching. Maybe she already found it. “I can’t even imagine what losing your mom as a child must have been like for you, but if you ever feel like you need to talk, I’m happy to listen.”
Emotion rises in my throat from her offer. I don’t know why. I’m not an emotional guy. But there’s something about the way she said it. So genuine. “Thanks,” I eventually say, after taking a deep breath to steady my voice.
Chuck swims over and folds his arms on the edge of the pool, looking slyly back and forth between Della and me. He can tell we’re having a moment and it makes him smirk because he thinks he’s got five hundred bucks coming his way. I stand to send the message that he’s wrong.
“What do you guys feel like for dinner?” I ask to shift the intensity. “Your choices are pasta, rice, or oatmeal.”
“Actually, my scholarship money came in today,” Della says. “I was planning to do a grocery run and make you guys a proper dinner as a thank you. If you want me to.”
“Hell yeah,” Chuck says as he climbs out of the pool.
“Sounds good to me,” BJ adds, still floating on his back.
I nod. “Sure. We’re doing a Costco shop for all the big
stuff after we get back from the rodeo this weekend, but there’s a market down the street. Do you want me to come with you? We can pick up some things for the next few days, too.”
Chuck and BJ exchange a raised eyebrow with each other.
Della nods and stands. “Okay. I just need to change. I’ll meet you out front.” She ducks by me and disappears into the house.
BJ throws a pool noodle at me. “What are you doing, idiot? She’s been here a day-and-a-half and you’re already on the verge of failing.”
“What? I can’t offer to go with her to the grocery store to show her what you guys like to eat?”
Chuck takes his boots off and dumps the water out. “Whatever’s going on between you two has nothing to do with things you eat at the grocery store. I’ll take my five hundred bucks in cash or check, whichever is more convenient for you.”
“I’m not breaking any rules. I’m just being helpful,” I say and turn to head inside.
“I want my winnings in cash!” BJ shouts as I walk away.
There are a lot of reasons why I shouldn’t pursue anything with Della – including every complication that goes along with living together if it works out, or worse, if it doesn’t work out – the money I’d owe them isn’t even on the top of the list. Unfortunately, none of the reasons hold much weight when we’re in close proximity.
She comes back downstairs dressed in a white blouse, white tennis shoes, and pink pants that are rolled at the ankle. Her dark hair is pulled into a ponytail and although she doesn’t seem to wear makeup, her lips are shiny as if she put on some sort of gloss. I try to ignore that, and as we leave the house, I remind myself of all the reasons it would be a bad idea to pursue her. I have canvas grocery bags in my truck, so I offer to drive, then open the passenger door for her. Walking around the back of the truck to the driver’s side, I mumble, “Come on, Havie. Stop acting like you can’t take your eyes off her. It’s a trip to Trader Joe’s, not a date.”