Page 4 of Tell Me Again

“I won’t.”

When she pulls back to look up at me again, her smile is a little brighter, like some weight has been lifted off her shoulders. I wish I could say the same for myself.

Chapter Three

Coop

Nothing says good morning like a phone call from your boss at 5:30 a.m. on what’s supposed to be your day off. I manage to roll out of bed and grab my cell phone—why the hell did I leave it in my pants pocket? and how the hell did my pants end up halfway between the doorway and my bed?—just as it rings for the third time.

“Yeah?”

“Good, you’re alive.”

That’s Mel. I can’t complain. I owe her too much, especially with everything she’s given me in the last nine years since Mom died. But sometimes her bluntness still catches me off guard.

“Mostly,” I say, leaning against the doorframe as I close my eyes. “Sorry about last night, I—”

“I need you here for opening,” she cuts in, clearly not in the mood for small talk. And she’d never let me finish my apology anyway. She never does. “Chuck had to call out.”

“His car won’t start again?”

“Something like that. Are you sick? Can you make it?”

“I’m fine. And yeah, I’ll be there.”

“He’ll be out all day. That means you’re workin’ a double.”

As if I need that reminder. But at least it’s Saturday, and that means it’ll be busy, and that means more tips. Which also means maybe I can finally get caught back up with rent again. I hate being behind.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s fine. Good, really. I know I still owe for this month and—”

“Coop, knock it off already. Whenever you’ve got the money is fine. Be here by six?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.” And she hangs up.

So much for going on a run this morning. And cleaning. And—oh, shit.

I turn to my dresser and pull open the top drawer. Empty.

Shit. No clean laundry. No clean laundry and my house is a fucking mess and I’m a fucking mess. Still. Not that I’ve ever been anything other than a fucking mess since Mom died, but most days I feel like I’ve got my shit a little more together. Maybe.

That’s definitely not today.

Resigned, I grab the cleanest work shirt I can find from what’s in the hamper (and on the bathroom floor) and throw it on with a pair of jeans that will hopefully also pass for clean-ish. Then I brush my teeth and tuck my hair under my baseball cap as I head out. There’s a layer of frost on the ground—maybe the first this year, even though it’s already late October—and I tuck my hands under my arms to keep them warm as I jog over to my truck. I’d left my coat at the diner last night in my hurry to get the fuck out of there without being seen, so I’m sort of screwed, I guess. Or at least I’ll be freezing until I get into town.

But the truck starts right up, pretending to be a dependable little thing, which it’s really, really not, and the heater even kicks on. Maybe it’s actually my lucky day.

Ha. Right.

I grip the steering wheel tightly and then lower my head to rest on the top rim.

Lucky me. I should count my fucking blessings. My truck starts and I have a steady job that sometimes pays me enough and a roof over my head that I can sometimes afford. I surely won the luck lottery. At least I’m alive.

God, what the fuck is wrong with me? I’m usually not this in my head. Because I do have a lot and a lot to be thankful for. Mel and my job and this truck and the house. Grumpy old Mel. She’s the reason I have my job and this truck and the house. Hell, if not for her, I’m not sure where I’d be. Definitely not sitting here, in a slowly warming truck that I bought myself, sitting outside a house that I (usually) pay rent for myself.

Totally winning at this adulting thing. Mom would be so proud.

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