Page 14 of The Consequence of Loving Me

After the heels on my shelf are perfectly aligned, I step out of the closet and continue rifling through my things. The next box I open houses more clothes, which is great except I can’t remember where Aspen put the box with all my hangers.

I look around my room, trying to find it. I zone in on the pile of boxes—almost as high as the ceiling—stacked against the wall by the window. A long sigh escapes me. Even though Aspen is easily six feet tall, my five foot seven is not near enough of a match to reach the boxes on the top.

Just as I consider moving on to a different task, footsteps sound from the stairs. Both Selma and Aspen are at work for the next five hours, which tells me the person coming down the stairs has to be Maverick.

He knocks on the trim of my door and says, “How’s it going in here?”

Speak of the devil.

I turn around and take in his appearance—a black hoodie with navy blue basketball shorts. His cheeks are tinted pink from the cold front we’re having in October here in Kansas. The dark strands of his hair fall over his forehead lazily and without effort.

“It’s going fine,” I say, “except I need hangers and I’m pretty sure they’re in the box on top of this stupidly high pile Aspen created.” I point to the stack of boxes going up the wall.

Since I stand directly in front of them, I’m sure Maverick can obviously pinpoint my dilemma. Even if I stand on my tiptoes with my arms outstretched, it would be nearly impossible to pull the box down without causing them all to tumble.

“I swear he did it on purpose so I would ask him to come back and help me,” I grumble, twisting my hair from my ponytail around my finger. My bottom lip is caught between my teeth as I ponder what way I will torture Aspen for this later.

Maverick laughs as he crosses the distance to my side of the room. His shoulder brushes mine as he lands next to me, looking up at the pile Aspen created. “Aspen definitely did this to be able to have an excuse to come back in here.” His long arms reach up and easily pull the box from the top. He sets it on the top of my bed before going back for the next one.

With those two boxes down, I can easily reach the rest of the stack. “Thank you,” I mutter. I take the box cutter and open both boxes, pleased to see one of them in fact holds the hangers I need. Dropping the other box on the ground, I climb onto my bed and pour the hangers out, throwing the empty box in my discarded pile of other empty boxes.

As I begin to hang all my clothes on the hangers and start a pile of them, Maverick grabs the box cutter and starts breaking down the boxes. We work in a comfortable silence—and it weirds me out. I’m not used to men who are this comfortable in silence. Usually, they try to fill it, and unfortunately, it’s normally with things they think I want to hear. But in the little time I’ve spent with Maverick, I’m starting to realize he isn’t like most men. He’s calmer, like he’s at peace with himself.

He seems grounded. Maybe it’s due to the fact that he’s in a relationship that is obviously perfect. I’ve only been living with him and Selma for three days now, but in those three days I would have to be blind to see they weren’t perfect for each other. They seem like best friends that happen to also be dating. I often found myself watching them, interested in their dynamic. I’d never witnessed two people so perfectly in tune with each other. Selma often finishes Maverick’s sentences, and he’s able to read her like a book, usually without her uttering a single word.

I’m envious of her, but not in the way people would expect. Anyone could look at her and know she’s a bright light. That she’s good for him. I’m the opposite. Any man I decide to love is destined to drown with me in darkness. I’ll never be the kind of girl who can pull a man from darkness. I’m the kind that pulls them into the depths with me, watching as they suffer.

My love is poison, and I’ll never give it away again.

“How did you and Selma meet?” I ask Maverick, my curiosity getting the better of me.

His arm stops mid-cut through the box, his body tensing for a brief moment before it relaxes again. His blue gaze finds mine, and there is shock there. He probably sees the same shock in mine. I’m not normally one to get personal with people.

“Selma and I have been dating since high school. Our families have been very close for a very long time,” he states.

The sound of tape being ripped fills the small room. His arms work quickly to break down the box and then he throws it out into the living area with the others he’s already completed.

“We’ve known each other for basically as long as I can remember,” he continues. “Selma’s parents and my own have been planning our wedding since we first met when we were kids. We fought it for a long time, both perfectly content with being best friends. Then, things changed.”

He shrugs and rolls the arm of his sleeve up, and I stop what I’m doing to watch him bend down to pick up another box. Except there are no more boxes to break down. His eyes stare at the boxes in the other room for a moment, his hands resting on his hips. A long breath escapes his lips.

“Things just…changed?” I ask quietly, still staring at him. I’m so enthralled in their love story, I don’t even care if my question is invasive.

A hand runs against the buzzed sides of his hair as he nods. “Yeah.” He pauses, his eyes wandering over the room. “Feelings got involved, among other things, and we’ve been together ever since.”

Maverick takes the few steps to my bed and I curiously watch him climb onto it, where he pulls his long legs in to sit cross-legged across from me.

“What do you mean among other things?” I reach for a hanger at the same time the heater kicks on. The sound of the air flow is the only sound in the room as he thinks over his response to my blatant intrusion into his life.

“Look,” he says.

His blue gaze pins me to my spot. My hands freeze as I stop halfway through putting a red blouse on a hanger.

He continues to stare at me with his next words. “I haven’t asked into your personal life, so let’s not get into mine. The spark notes version of my relationship with Selma is that we were friends that turned into something more. And now, we continue to navigate that something more.” His eyes bore into mine for a moment longer before he picks up a hanger of his own and begins to hang one of my jean jackets on it.

“Well, you two seem perfect for each other. Happy,” I say, my hands finishing their job of hanging the blouse. We both place newly-hung clothing in the growing pile.

“I love her,” he states, making sure my eyes look at him before he starts his next task.

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