Page 24 of When The Rain Falls

"Well, here you go." He waves to the boxes. "I told Alex I'd bring your shit, but I'm not going to unload it for you. I hurt my back two weeks ago and I'm still recovering."

"I got it," Aimee says.

"I'll do it." I glare at the excuse of a man in front of me and walk to the tailgate, reaching for two boxes stacked on top of each other. I slide them onto my thigh, get a good grip, and begin to walk them to Alicia's porch.

"Nu-uh," Aimee says, rolling in front of me, arms outstretched. "I can carry my own shit."

"Nice try," I tell her. "But you can barely walk in those. And as much fun as it might be to see you fall on your face, I, unfortunately, have a conscience." I easily move around her and keep walking down Alicia's driveway.

“I assume you’re in the guest room,” I call back to her as I prop the boxes on my thigh and open the front door.

“You can’t just waltz into my room.” When I turn back around, Aimee is in the grass, muttering under her breath, trying to pull the rollerblades off her feet.

“Look at that. Pretty sure that I can,” I say as I ignore her and walk into the house. I don’t know why I'm insisting on doing this. But something inside me doesn’t want her to win this one. She’s winning all the battles being waged in my head. I want thislittlevictory. I walk up the stairs finding the guest bedroom easily, considering our houses have an identical floor plan, and plop the box on her bed.

When I arrive back outside, Aimee frowns at me as she struggles to pull off the second rollerblade. I walk up to the open tailgate and pull another box onto my thigh.

"Careful. I think that one's books. Alex could barely lift it," Eric warns. And that propels me to act like an even bigger idiot than I already am.

"What, this?" I say casually, hoisting the box into my arms. It's fucking heavy. But I don't let it show. "It's not that heavy," I say, barely masking the strain in my voice.

I walk past Aimee just as she kicks off her last roller blade and shoots up in front of me.

"I'll take that, thank you very much," she says. She puts her arms out, palms up. I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. But that smug look on her face talks me out of doing the right thing.

"If you insist," I say. I drop the box onto her hands. She grunts and buckles at the knees as she nearly doubles over. Her eyes look like they'll pop right off her face. I instantly feel bad. So I reach down and pick up the box again.

"I'll get the next one," she groans as she regains her composure. She doesn't just have a wild and independentstreak. No, she's pure independence. And I kind of love that she has no choice but to let me do this for her.

Soon, I’ve got the last box in my hand. I wave Eric away as I walk back into the house and up the stairs. I walk into Aimee’s room, or the guest room, and set the last box on her dresser. Aimee’s rifling through the heavy boxy, her white shirt still clinging across her front. I bite my lip and look down at my hands.

“Thanks,” she says begrudgingly, pulling out some books and setting them on the dresser.

“No problem,” I say, garnering the courage to lift my eyes from my own hands back to her face.

Aimee pokes around in the box again. She lifts a pile of books, removes a small stack of what looks like thick paper of some kind, and lets out a sigh.

"Oh, phew. The asshole didn't damage my stuff."

"What asshole? Alex? Is he an ex?" I ask, trying not to sound too curious. I'm not trying to figure out if she's single. I'm just making polite conversation.

"Ex-roommate," she clarifies, giving away precisely zero information about her relationship status. Which is completely fine with me. Right?

"What's that?” I point to the stack of posters in her hand.

"Oh. Just some projects I'm working on." She clutches the paper to her chest.

"Let's see." I give thecome herehand gesture.

She tilts her head and considers my command. Then she loosens her grip against her chest and hands me the stack. I take them and flip through them. They are three 8x10 posters that feature digital designs of landscapes with lettering at the top. I realize they are travel posters for local destinations. There's one that saysMt. Rainier National Parkwith a graphic of the infamous peak with some wildflowers in the foreground. A second one saysLong Beach, Washingtonand features a sandy beach littered with seagulls and bright, colorful kites in the sky. There's one of Seattle, with the space needle along the skyline and a ferry boat in the foreground with two female figures walking along the boardwalk.

“Did you make these?”

"Yeah.” She waves me off dismissively, but there’s something somber on her face.

“They’re good,” I tell her as I hand them back. And I mean it. They’re something you might find for sale on one of those handmade goods websites.

“Thank you. I'm a graphic designer," she says again, dismissively. She blows out a breath and crosses her arms. "Well, I'm trying to be. I work for a large agency that just has me doing plug and chug templates. So I do this for fun on the side. When I need to create something."

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