Lindsey

 

Maybe he got flighty and decided not to risk his presence being noted, but I haven’t received any more threatening messages, either. He was there all the time, and then he just wasn’t. I almost don’t believe it. Maybe he’s out of town on a job.

Either way, I feel lighter with each day that passes Craig-free. Jenson and the band came to a tentative decision to move forward on recording an album. Tentative on Jenson’s part, not the band’s. They’ve been holed up in the studio for most of the week, writing and recording. I wonder if I’m the only one who can see the lack of passion, the lack of fire, in Jenson’s eyes. I doubt it. Carter knows him better than I do, so I know he sees it. He’s all heart and no flame.

Taking my suggestions to heart, Jenson comes by the café anytime he has a break. He orders two black coffees and occupies the table in the window, cracking open his leather-bound journal and scratching lyrics on the lined pages. I join him when the café is slow and I have a spare moment. Sometimes I just sit while he writes, enjoying Nashville’s descent into fall as people pass by the café wrapped in scarves and coats, and sometimes I edit, or scour my inbox for emails from the event venues I’ve reached out to.

Each time I search my inbox, I tell myself I won’t be disappointed—that every moment I wait will be another one I celebrate when I finally succeed. I just never guessed it would be this hard. Not to mention, Thanksgiving is swiftly approaching, and I’ll have to answer to each of my failures over family dinner.

When Jenson asks me to come over for dinner during one of our writing sessions in the café one day, I accept without blinking an eye. Then I wonder who this person is I’ve become. Where Craig’s slithered out of my life, Jenson’s slipped in. And, up until now, I haven’t worried much about it. But the thought that I haven’t bothered to worry before today is totally making me worry more. Is this a date? Should I be concerned about him thinking it is? I ponder that as I’m walking home after my shift to shower and change. I’ve even been subconsciously considering which outfit I’ll be stealing from Anika’s closet.

Why am I like this? I’ve been busting my ass trying to get consistent work, on top of blowing off Craig and somehow maintaining this offbeat friendship with Jenson. Why shouldn’t I enjoy one leisurely dinner? Deep down, I know the answer to that. Each moment with Jenson is turning into a little point of light in my life, and I know better than anyone the darkness they’ll leave when they go out.

Upon entering my apartment, I’m immediately immersed in my roommates’ debate of Swiffering versus mopping. I’m not surprised to discover Isaac in the center of the argument, but I never expected Sebastian to be pro-mop. I’ve never seen the guy pick up a dirty sock, much less the Swiffer we don’t even own.

“Lindsey, mop or Swiffer? I know you’re team mop, don’t even try to lie,” Sebastian says, one hand shamelessly down the front of his sweatpants while he swigs a beer with the other. I’ve seen my roommates scratch their balls more times than I’d consider normal.

“I didn’t think you knew what either of those were,” I shoot back, tossing my keys into the bowl.

“Hey, I watch enough TV, okay? I know the commercials. Now, quit dodging the question.”

I try to step around them, but Isaac intercepts me with an arm around my shoulders. “You’re the deciding factor. We’ve got a lot riding on this,” he says, kissing me on the head. If he thinks that’ll win me over to his cause, he’s dead wrong. Why do guys waste their time fighting about this stuff anyway?

I wiggle out of his grasp. “I couldn’t give two shits about your stupid debate, I have to get ready.”

“Ohh, come on. You have to feel more passionately about one,” Sebastian whines.

“I feel more passionately about you throwing all those bottles away,” I point out the cluster of empty bottles on the kitchen counter, fighting the urge to smack him upside the head.

“Beside the point. Swiffer or mop?”

“Swiffer. Now leave me alone, I’m going to meet Jenson.” I’m past them, halfway down the hallway to my bedroom, when Sebastian calls out to me.

“What did Jenson say about those photos, anyway?”

I set my bag on my dresser, wondering what photos he could be referring to. My conversations with Sebastian usually involve pizza toppings or whether Hooters is better than Wing Stop, not anything remotely involving my romantic interests.

“Which photos?” I ask, tearing my work shirt off and tossing it into the hamper. Sebastian appears in the hallway, bracing against the doorframe. Maybe it’s not quite normal to be comfortable in a bra around your male roommates, but privacy is a hot commodity Anika and I have adjusted to living without.

“The ones of the BMW, outside. I smoked a whole carton just waiting on that dude, and then he almost saw me taking the pics. Felt like a total creeper.”

My heartbeat slows to a crawl at the mention of the car. It’s clear he’s referring to Craig, but why the hell would he be taking photos of him, and what does that have to do with Jenson?

“Why would Jenson want you taking photos of a car?” I question, but realization has dawned on him almost as quickly as it’s dawned on me.

Sebastian’s face tightens with guilt, then he turns away as if he doesn’t want me to see. “Forget about it.” He disappears from the doorway and I set off after him, blocking the door to his room when he tries to shut it in my face.

“What did Jenson ask you to take photos of, Sebastian?” I ask, following as he crosses the room and begins stuffing earbuds into his ears. I grip the cord and yank them out. “Why are you suddenly so shy? You were all talk just a second ago. Why did Jenson ask you to take pictures?”

“It’s not my business,” he says, holding up his hands. “I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t, but I think I have a right to know if it involves me and my—” My words falter, my mouth gaping.

Sebastian smirks, tossing his iPhone and earbuds onto the crate serving as his bedside table. “Your what? Or does Jenson not live up to the great Lindsey’s expectations, either?”

My head jerks back. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Isaac answers from the doorway, popping his head in. “It means nothing.”

But when I turn back to Sebastian, he looks at me through locks of long hair and lifts a brow challengingly. I want to flick his stupid hair out of his stupid face. Or maybe cut it while he’s sleeping and see if he cries. Man child.

“What do you know of my expectations? I hardly even talk to you.”

“It’d take someone blind not to notice the way you string people along who genuinely care about you, then act like you’re the tortured girl no one understands.”

Now I’m really confused. “What are you talking about? Did Jenson put you up to this?”

“What do you think we’re doing, having fucking tea parties behind your back? No. I hardly know the guy. Maybe I would if you’d be straight with yourself.” He drops onto his bed, lazing back on the pillows.

It’s really none of his business, but it’s not like I’m not going to defend myself. Then I remember the reason we’re even having this discussion. “Just tell me about the pictures and maybe I won’t shave your head in your sleep.”

As if to spite me, he gathers his hair in a fist and ties it up into a bun, a sly smile on his face. He’s enjoying this. “Jenson asked me to take pictures of a guy he thought was following you. Said he’d seen a few messages that worried him, and he needed the pics as collateral. That’s it.”

My stomach turns. Jenson went through my phone? It doesn’t sound like something he would do, but how well do I really know him, anyway? Sebastian’s wrong. He has to be. I let out a barely controlled breath and spin on my heel, ready to get away from him and the bullshit he’s spewing.

“Your behavior is just proving my point,” he calls, and I spin back around and peg him with a heated glare.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re fucking fuming over someone who’s just looking out for you.”

No. I’m fuming over someone who thinks they know what’s best for me. I’m no stranger to the feeling. “The next time you decide to do something behind my back, maybe make sure to drive the knife a little deeper, would you?”

His response is garbled as I shut his bedroom door behind me and snatch up my wallet and keys. It’s not too far of a walk, and maybe the extra time spent traveling between Jenson’s place and mine will temper my ferocity. Besides, I don’t want to stop long enough to ask Isaac for a ride.

It’s just my luck that it’s raining. The clouds are swollen and ominous, showing no sign of finishing their assault on the city, but I don’t care. I don’t care about the rain, I don’t care about Sebastian, and I’m running out of fucks to give about Jenson too, if what Sebastian’s saying is true. For anger’s sake, I accept that it is, and I stew as I skitter down the wet sidewalks.

I don’t know how Jenson caught wind of Craig. As far as I know, Anika was the only one who knew about him. Ashamed of the position I was put in, I’d kept him hidden from everyone I knew, sometimes even myself. I’d deny he was real, that his looming presence was just a figment of my wild imagination. But Craig was real. Is real, depending on what happened between him and Jenson. But the only evidence of Craig is the string of texts and voicemails on my phone that were promptly cut off a week ago. 

My feet pound the pavement with renewed vigor. My hair hangs heavy and lank around my face, drops of rain falling from the ends to course in rivulets down my chest and beneath the neck of my T-shirt. My jean jacket, distressed for the sake of fashion, does nothing to shield against the cold, and instead just weighs my shoulders down. But the wet and cold are the farthest things from my mind. I’m inwardly burning, cursing all the circumstances that pushed Craig and I together in the first place.

I’d seen someone post about a music photography workshop in one of the photo groups I’m a member of on Facebook. The photographer was Craig Potinski, a name that circulates like mad in the music world and holds the kind of weight I hope mine will one day. I knew there’d be a fee, but I figured I’d reach out to Craig anyway to see if there was some kind of payment plan we could come up with. After all, I make good on my debts. Instead of getting right down to the payment specifics, he expressed an interest in my work and what kind of experience I had at that point. We discussed my goals and he offered to critique my portfolio, free of charge. After reviewing my work, he said he recognized my talent, my drive, and invited me to the workshop, stating we’d work out the money situation later. I should’ve recognized that for the red flag it was.

The warehouse where the workshop was being held, although ominous on the outside, was filled to the brim with energy and promise. There was a stage set up and a band playing, and there was even a small crowd of “fans” singing and gyrating to the beat. We were instructed to take out our cameras and shoot. No preparation involved, no guidelines. Just us, our cameras, and the music. It was one of the most unique and unforgettable experiences of my life.

After that, we went through a group critique exercise, then endured feedback and redirection from Craig Potinski himself. He seemed to like my work. He seemed normal. I didn’t necessarily want to reiterate that I couldn’t afford the guidance I’d already received, but I brought up the matter of payment again once the workshop ended. I offered what I could—a couple hundred bucks—but Craig shrugged it off and mentioned going to dinner and exchanging “great company and invigorating conversation” for his services instead. I’d thought it odd, but I played along. After all, I owed him. But it didn’t end at dinner. He’d texted me almost nonstop, and when I politely declined a romantic relationship, the tone turned more hostile.

I could’ve turned him in, or blocked his number, but I knew I’d never truly be finished with Craig if I went that route. If victims of domestic violence are often abandoned by the law, what kind of protection would I get for a few lurid text messages and phone calls? I’d dug my grave and leaped into it willingly. Still, I was scraping together my pennies to come up with the original amount I owed. Each paycheck, each job, brought me a miniscule step closer to being rid of him for good, my way. Jenson, and whatever he did, took that away from me.   

I push through the door into Jenson’s lobby and ignore the glance the concierge sends my way, a mixture of concern and disgust, and give her my name. She checks it against her database of approved visitors and hardly gets out a nod before I’m sliding down the slick concrete hallways to the elevator bank. Luckily the first cab arrives empty, and I ride up to the twelfth floor with nothing but my steaming thoughts playing as a background anthem.

Banging on the door with a fist, I shift uncomfortably in my Chucks. They’re leaking water all over the hallway. Then the door’s opening and Jenson is in front of me, taking me in with wide eyes. I watch for guilt, but he just frowns in concern, as I could’ve guessed he would. I duck beneath his arm, going no further than the entry.

He turns to me, a list of questions in his eyes. “I thought I was supposed to pick you up. Did you wa—"

“You want to tell me about the photos?” I cut him off, and after a moment of stunned silence, he drops his arms to his sides. The ones I didn’t walk into when I arrived. Under other circumstances the sight of him in only a pair of thin, worn sweatpants would’ve made an irresistible package. Right now, it only makes me angry. He’s like bait in a trap set especially for girls like me, who fall for sad eyes and a little body ink.

“What photos?” In place of confusion, his features are passive, unflinching.

“The ones you asked Sebastian to take,” I say, inadvertently shivering in my wet clothes. “Or did you really not expect me to find out?”

“Can I get you a towel first? You’ve gotta be freezing.”

“You can explain why you went to Sebastian behind my back.”

At the sight of my stance, motionless and unyielding, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and shrugs. “He needed to be dealt with.”

That would only make sense if he were aware of the entire situation. And that would only be the case if he was digging through my things. “How did you even know about Craig in the first place?”

“Why would you bother to hide something like that?”

“Just answer the question, Jenson! Stop talking me in circles,” I huff.

Something flashes in his eyes, a cool recognition of my outburst. Like he’s been here before. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t mean to. When I came home and you were passed out here, he was blowing your phone up. I didn’t know who Craig was, but he’d called and texted so many times I assumed it was some kind of emergency. Maybe back at home, I don’t know. I just meant to take a look, but the way he was speaking to you, the things he was saying. . . Jesus Christ, Lindsey, I didn’t know what you were caught up in.”

I catch his tone and my jaw tightens. “What did you think I was caught up in?”

“I had no clue. I had no reason to suspect you’d been doing anything, but how could I know? There are plenty of opportunistic people and plenty of kids out here wanting a taste of success and going starry-eyed at the sight of it. It could’ve been anything—money, drugs, sex. I didn’t know what you owed. How could I? You didn’t say anything about it. You don’t say anything about anything, except to tell me how to live my life.”

His words are like caramel-coated barbed wire. Rich and smooth, but taking root in my skin all the same. I can’t help it when my teeth grind. “I won’t even dignify that with a response. What did you do with whatever you found out? Did you call him? Finally find out about my supposed debt?”

“I met up with him in person.”

My head falls back on my neck. I know how persuasive Craig can be, how unassuming. Like a viper in velvet. What did he put in Jenson’s head?

“And we had a little chat. He won’t bother you again.”

I lick my lips, not meeting his eyes, then turn and twist the doorknob. I think we’re done here. Before the door is open enough to get through, Jenson’s arm appears over my shoulder to bar my path and push it closed. I give the handle a frustrated jerk for good measure, then blow out a sigh mixed with a cry of frustration.

“Is this my punishment for not coming to you for help? I’m trapped now?”

“No. Say you want to leave and I’ll let you leave—”

“I want to leave,” I say before he can finish.

“But for once in your life, just talk to me first,” he says over my declaration. “You had a problem and I handled it. Tell me why that’s so wrong.”

I turn toward him, caged between his outstretched arms and the door, and duck beneath his elbow so I won’t feel so trapped. Then I stalk toward the bathroom for a towel. I am freezing. Jenson follows, walking alongside the little puddles I leave in my wake. Shrugging out of my sopping jacket, I sling it over the glass wall of the shower, followed by my shirt. Makeup is pooled beneath my eyes. I look like a tragic, drowned Goth girl.

I use his towel to start squeezing my hair, unconcerned that my bra is soaked through and more of my skin is pebbled with goosebumps than not. I can feel Jenson’s heated gaze from the doorway, but he doesn’t crowd me. He gives me space to form the answer I might not have volunteered otherwise.

Without looking at him, I speak. “Because I thought you were different. You have your shit and I have mine, but things were always easy with you. But, you did what everyone else does. You thought you knew what was best for me better than I did.” Just like my mother and father, when they kept their divorce a secret until I left for college to spare me from the harsh reality that love sometimes fails.

At his silence, I look up to see resignation in his eyes. He knows what he did, but he doesn’t regret it. He also knows I’m right.

“You think I don’t know what’s good for you?” he finally asks, sliding through the doorway and propping one arm on the towel rack and the other on the counter across from it, effectively cornering me once again.

I use the towel as a shield between us, covering some of my vulnerability, and squeeze excess water out of my bra. “You overstepped a boundary.”

“Which one is that?”

“You know which one.”

“Boundaries are meant to be crossed, don’t you think? Or else when would we have any fun?”

I know he’s trying to be sexy, or slick, but that doesn’t distract me from the war path I’m on. And I’m past the point of no return. “It wasn’t your decision to make.”

He drops his head between his muscled shoulders in surrender. “You’re right. I crossed the line.” Then he looks up at me and sears me with just a look. “How would you have handled it?”

“I was saving up to pay him off,” I grumble, wiping rainwater from my stomach and chest. “Not that it matters to you.”

“And you think money is enough to keep a guy like that away? From someone like you? Not a chance. He never would’ve quit. He would’ve held something above your head until he got whatever it was he was after.”

“If you’re expecting my gratitude for not only going behind my back, but coercing my roommate to do the same, you can forget about it. I’m not a doormat.”

“I’d never make the mistake of thinking that.” He straightens and takes a step closer. “You’re more like a steamroller.”

“Hmm?”

“Yeah, that’s more like it, flattening anything and everything in your path.” 

As he draws closer, I have to crane my neck to look up at him. “A piece of construction equipment. You’re comparing me to construction equipment.”

“Why are you so angry with me?” We’re nearly toe to toe now, and I’m doing my best to ignore the proximity and focus on drying myself, but I’m burning up from the inside out already. My adrenaline from earlier hasn’t subsided with his admittance that he was wrong. It’s just amped up, pumping through my veins like something volatile, electric.

“Because I don’t need protecting.”

He reaches out, and I brace myself as he sweeps the pad of his finger over the line of my jaw. “I know you don’t need it, but I’ve always been too little too late. It’s probably the worst thing about me. Forgive me if I wanted to change that.” His eyes are boring into mine with an intensity that makes me forget the feeling of wet denim clinging to my legs, the hair sticking to my back. I just stand there, every nerve homed in on the burning path of his fingers. Then I find the strength to bat his hand away.

“Yeah, how well did that work out for you?”

He winces, but I don’t take it back. It’s better like this. You let people in and they know they can play your strings. He seems to gather himself, shaking his head wryly. “I don’t think you know how fascinating it is to watch. You’re more willing to drown than be saved.”

I force out a shaky breath. “An outstretched hand isn’t always a helping one. Sometimes it’s there to drag you under.”

“I won’t drag you under. But I’ll damn sure follow you down.”

Without a word, he takes the towel from my hands and steps behind me, gently rotating my shoulders so I’m facing the mirror. He doesn’t give me a say in the matter. I trace his movements in our reflection, watching as he lifts my hair and uses a towel-covered hand to massage water from the nape of my neck. He drags it languorously down my spine, skipping over my bra clasp and caressing my lower back. With the other hand, he pauses over the clasp of my bra and meets my eyes in question. When I don’t say no, a flick of his fingers has it springing from my shoulders. I shift my arms so it slides to the floor.

Jenson turns me to face him, and I stare back unabashedly as he opens the button of my jeans and drags the zipper down. With his palms against my skin, he runs his hands downward to separate the denim from my legs, kneeling so he can peel them past my thighs to the floor. I lift each foot so he can tug them off, tossing them into the corner where they land with wet flump.

And there, knelt on the ground before me, he continues drying my legs, giving each swell and depression, each bone, muscle, and ligament his undivided attention. When he meets my eyes, I look for the question I know I’ll find. I shift my hips to push off the counter, allowing him to slide my panties down my legs. His lips meet the inside of one knee, then the other, and he works his way up, up, all the way up until his mouth closes hotly on the juncture of my thighs. By default, my head falls back and my breath escapes between my teeth with a soft hiss. He hikes a leg over his shoulder, and I’m open to him as his tongue parts me and runs the entire length of me until it stops to circle my knot of tension.

My anger, my frustration, is a bar of wet soap in tight hands as he works me over. I lose track of my reason for being here, of sense. And when I fist my hands and shatter with my legs around his face, it’s all I can do to stay upright, though “upright” is a generous word for it. Then Jenson’s standing and lifting me into his arms, carrying me out of the bathroom and lowering us both onto his duvet. He sucks the thin skin over my collarbone, and sensation returns to my gelatinous limbs.

“You want to follow me down?” I ask him, hooking my ankles around his thighs. He buries his face in my neck, and crackling pleasure jolts through me. Then he’s flipping us and I’m on top, and his hand makes its way between my legs again.

“Yes. Drown me.”

 

In the silence of the morning, while Jenson’s breathing is still heavy and his arms are sprawled open, unguarded, I use my aloneness to inspect the map of ink over his right side. We’ve been naked in front of each other often enough, but rarely are those moments spent unoccupied by other activities. I’ve never had the time to appreciate the detail of the tree that dominates most of his torso. Everything from the veins on the leaves to the bark of the trunk was painstakingly done. Some of the upper branches arch over his shoulder, and the roots extend all the way to his hipbone.

The Celtic cross on his ribs, beside the trunk, captures my attention next. Several minutes later, and only when I look up and see his eyes cracked—molten earth and topaz through thick, black lashes—I realize he’s awake.

“Still angry?” he asks, sleep rasping his already gravelly voice.

“Yes. Thoroughly worn out, but angry.” Even as I say the words, they don’t carry much meaning. The heat of my temper was lost between rounds three and four, the marks on his back the only testament that the angst ever existed.

“I don’t think I know better than you, but I won’t do something that would lend you to believe that again.” He traps my fingers where they were tracing the initials I found at the bottom of the cross, lifting them to his mouth and kissing the pads of each one. It’s unfamiliar, melting over such a simple act. But I’m putty in his sheets. He runs his thumb over my palm thoughtfully. “For such a free spirit, you’re weirdly controlled.”

“What do you mean?” I ask sleepily.

He turns my palm toward me so I can see the faint crescent-shaped depressions there from last night. “You never let yourself fall completely.”

I rest my head on his bicep. “I don’t want to fall apart.”

“You’re in no danger of that. You can always pick yourself up if you need to, even if it’s piece-by-piece. I’d know.”

I pull my hand away, and his goes immediately into my hair. The hair that dried in my sleep and probably looks completely out of control. “That sounds miserable.”

“It’s not all bad. There’s a beauty to breaking.”

“How can you still think that? After everything?” I stop short of mentioning his divorce.

“I was just as broken then as I am now. But when I lost everything and all I had was myself, I found the initiative to get myself together.”

I wonder if that’s what he’s doing, getting himself together. With an unobstructed view into the living room—at the boxes he’s yet to unpack—and the bare walls all around, I’m not sure he is. But I guess home décor isn’t always indicative of someone’s well-being. Some people don’t put their hearts on their walls like I do. I wait for him to continue, not wanting to disturb the fragile moment.

He follows his fingers as they continue through my hair. “More of you can be found in the cracks rather than the shell. People like to forget that.”

“Maybe because the cracks are uglier than people want to believe,” I suggest.

“But they’re real. I’d do anything for something real. I try my hardest to give my listeners that.”

“I get it. I want to show everyone what they don’t always look hard enough to see.” At this moment, I’m thinking of his roots. Of his raw words and the way they pull something out of him every time he performs.

He turns over on his side and watches me, considering something. Then he says, “How do you expect to show the world its own beauty if you keep it at a distance?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” I say automatically. He nods once, as if he realizes that in this, we are the same. All we want is truth, reality, when we’ve done all we can to shield ourselves from it, or to shield other people from the worst parts of us.

“This conversation has gotten heavier than I meant,” I say with a short laugh. Jenson just shrugs a shoulder, and my fingers return to his ribs. “Tell me about the tree.”

His lower lip turns out as he cranes his neck to look down at it. “My dad left my mom shortly after I was born, and all he left behind, aside from this ring”—he spins the band of engraved silver on his thumb—“was a newly planted tree in the backyard. When I was growing up, I couldn’t figure out why for the life of me. But I’d sit under its little branches and wonder. It was barely a stick then, but so was I. Then I came up with this theory that if I waited there under that tree long enough, he’d somehow know it and come back. As the branches spread, I started believing something else—that as the shade grew across the yard, so did his presence. Like he was there, looking after me, without really being there. Then I became a teenager and decided all that was bullshit, but I did learn this: everyone needs something to believe in—whether that faith exists as a foundation or motivation is up to you. I stopped putting my faith in that tree and put it in myself instead.”

“The roots are my favorite.”

 “Those are a reminder. To always remember where I came from, what I stand on. My mom’s initials are in there, as well as Carter’s and some others; the people who helped get me where I am and didn’t expect anything in return.”

I look closer, squinting to discern letters in the twisted roots, trying to figure out who’s worth a coveted spot on his skin. “You could’ve just put ‘I love Mom’ in a heart on your arm, you know. No need to go through all this.” I run my fingers over his ribs and dig between two of them until he squirms. It’s endlessly amusing that he’s so ticklish.

“There’s still time,” he teases, pinning the offending hand to the bed and turning me over. He kisses me slowly and sweetly, then his tongue dips into my mouth and the morning slips away from us.

 

We talk and sleep and make out on and off until eleven, when I become too famished to think straight. Of course, there’s less in his refrigerator than there was when he was living with Carter. He needs to start making himself a priority, starting with stocking up on good food.

I ask him for the password to his phone while he showers, and after a bit of finagling, he gives it up. Then I navigate to the app store and download one of the grocery-delivery apps. By the time I’ve plugged in the necessary information, Jenson’s out of the shower with just a towel around his hips, procuring clothes from his dresser.

“I need your credit card info,” I say from where I’m sprawled across his couch. He appears, standing over me.

“If it’s for last night, I’m not sure I can afford it,” he says with a wink. I mimic kicking him in the face before flashing him the phone screen.

“I’m ordering you some groceries. You need to start taking care of yourself.”

He rolls his lips inward, appearing to fight a smile. When he drops his wallet into my hands, I fish out a credit card and input the information. Then I go to town. Produce, non-perishable items, gum to help stop smoking—I select it all.

“You can schedule future deliveries on here, and it even tracks previous purchases so you can just select ‘restock.’ Hit the payment button and bam, food delivered to your door,” I call as he clothes himself in the other room. I manage to sneak a peek of his fantastic behind before he pulls a pair of shorts on.

“Did you just say bam?” He turns to me and swipes his hair one last time with the towel, tossing it back into the bathroom. Groceries are one thing, but teaching him to hang his wet towels so they don’t get mildewy is obviously going to take some time.

“I did. And I just made your life about a million times better.” Rising from the couch, I toss him his phone. Then I go to grab my clothes from the dryer, where he placed them last night, and swap them for his shirt I’m wearing. I regretfully fold it back how he had it after taking one last drag of his intoxicating scent.

“You can take it with you, you know.” He’s peering around the corner. I don’t know how long he’s been there.

“What? That’s okay.” I wave him off, returning to the entry table to grab my wallet. Jenson follows.

“I was going to order us food.”

“It’s fine. I have to work this evening, and I lazed around long enough.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding at the ground. “Are we okay?”

I pause with one hand on the door handle, the obvious concern in his voice making my heart twinge. “We’re okay,” I tell him with a reassuring smile.

He nearly sags in relief. “You made quite the entrance.”

“I didn’t mean to be so dramatic, it just worked out that way.” His smiling face is all I see as the door closes behind me.