Page 150 of Unspoken Rules

I shake my head and tie off the bag, leaving it by the kitchen door. I grab another trash bag and keep going. At this rate, I’ll fill up four.

Cole says nothing to me, but he stays and helps. He works on the dishes while I finish the trash. When I’m done, I go to the fridge, where I find moldy vegetables, expired milk, and meat that is a color I didn’t think it could turn.

I grab yet another trash bag and get rid of everything in the fridge that is bad, then wipe everything down. When I’m done with that, Cole is nearly finished with the dishes. So I wipe down the counters. He sweeps the floor. I clean the table. He grabs the trash bags to take them outside. I step in something sticky, so I go to the washroom, where I’m assaulted by a horrible smell, only to find the floor covered in dirty laundry. I drop my head to my chest and curse inwardly. Grabbing a handful, I open the washer to shove it on, only to find some in there that smells to high heavens, because they’ve been sitting in there for who knows how long. Tossing in a ton of soap, I start them to wash again, check the dryer and find it empty. I grab the mop bucket and mop, go to the kitchen, and mop the floor.

Cole is standing in the doorway when I’m done. “Thank y—” I move past him, bumping into him, which I don’t mean to do, but I keep going without giving an apology.

I’m so angry.

I don’t know why I’m angry, I just am.

Why the hell is his house such a mess? Why is he such a mess and not doing anything about it? How the hell did his house get so damn messy if he’s been in the hospital with Chris, then with me?

The answer is obvious.

It was a mess before that.

And that’s what pisses me off, because he left me alone for weeks while he was struggling. He struggled alone. Didn’t ask for help. Didn’t allow me to help him.

But this is what we need to do.

Yeah. Yeah, it is. So why the hell am I still so angry?

When I step into his room, I find it as messy as I expected. Clothes everywhere. And it smells like shit in here too. This used to be my favorite place. It always smelled like Cole. Now? I can hardly stand the scent. I gather all the dirty clothes from the floor, strip the bed and remake it with new sheets. I’m surprised Cole hasn’t come up here yet, but he probably thinks I went to my own room to bed.

Once all the dirty clothes are in a pile by the door, I venture into the bathroom. And good gods above, it’s disgusting.

I curse under my breath, then get to work. It doesn’t take as long as I thought it would. Maybe because the bathroom isn’t too big. Maybe because I’m taking my anger out on cleaning. When I get all the clothes together and carry them downstairs, that’s when Cole finds me again.

“What are you—are those my bed sheets?”

He follows me into the washroom.

“Bryson, what the hell are you doing?” he barks.

“Didn’t we already go over this, Cole?” I ask, glaring at him.

I sort all the dirty laundry into piles that’re sized for the wash because I’m not going to be here to do it all.

“You don’t have to clean my house.”

I don’t answer, just keep sorting.

“Bryson.”

Still don’t say anything. I keep the piles neat against the wall, hoping this will be enough to get him to do it himself. Even if he doesn’t fold them, at least they’ll be clean, and this smell will go away.

“Bryson, damnit. Answer me!”

“No!” I stand and whirl toward him. “No, Cole. I don’t want to answer you. I don’t want to talk to you. Hell, I don’t even want to look at you.”

He looks as if I’ve slapped him, taking a step back.

“Don’t you get it? Don’t you see how hard this is for me?” I ask, throwing my arms up. He opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand. “Don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter.” I turn back to the laundry. “I’ll do as much of this as I can while I’m here, but I’m not folding any of it. I fucking hate folding laundry.” The washer buzzes that it’s done, so I take everything out and throw it in the dryer, then shove another load into the wash. Cole stares at me like I’ve grown another arm.

When I’m done in here, I head upstairs and close the door to my room, then fall onto the bed.

I swear I feel him on the other side of the door. I know he’s there. I don’t know how I know he’s there, I just do. And it annoys me to no end. Because he isn’t being inappropriate. I think he’s just doing what he knows. He’s trying to make me feel better, take care of me, but he’s so fucked up right now that he doesn’t know how to.

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