Page 28 of Love Me Reckless

I step from the cab and walk up the driveway, taking in the quiet street, some of the yards with kids’ bikes in the grass or a soccer net, one with a tree fort. I know from looking at a map, there’s a park at the end of the next block and an elementary school a half a mile away. Will I see a school bus rumbling down our street Monday morning?

The blond guy turns, his bright blue eyes lighting up. “Hey. Are you Sawyer?”

“Yeah,” I say, fighting the nerves stirring in my gut. I’ve been thrown into a lot of new living situations many times, but this one feels more critical, and I don’t want to blow it. I extend my hand and the guy shakes it. His grip is firm, the surface calloused. A workingman’s hand.

“Carson,” he says, then leans to the side so he can see my truck. “You want to unload? Or see the room first?”

I eye my mountain bike mounted to my roof.

“Your bike is safe for a few,” Carson says, as if reading my mind.

“Okay,” I say, “then the room would be great.”

“Sure,” he says, and turns toward the garage. We pass through what could be a storeroom of an outdoor gear shop. Mountain bikes hang from hooks near the left wall, a shelf unit at the back holds clear plastic tubs containing what looks like climbing and camping gear, and there’s a raft parked on a trailer taking up the right bay with damp paddling gear and wetsuits hanging on a rope above it.

We enter a side door to a mudroom with a shop sink and shelves of shoes and more gear and outdoor clothing, then Carson leads me into an open kitchen.

He points at the fridge. “Everyone has their own shelf, and we pitch in for community stuff like coffee and tortillas. There’s a chore chart on the side, too. Every week we each pick three.”

“Sounds good.” That he’s giving me these details now, instead of keeping me in the dark, feels welcoming. Not everyone is that way.

“Oh, and I hope you’re cool with this one, but we have a strict no drugs policy in the house. You can do whatever you want outside these walls, though. We’re not assholes.”

“I’m totally good with that.” And relieved.

“Living room, yard.” He points as he talks. “I’m extending the back deck, so it’s a little messy back there.”

“It’s great,” I say. The backyard has a nice-looking barbecue grill and another giant pine tree.

“My room’s down there,” he says, pointing to the hallway leading past the kitchen. “You’re upstairs with Brody. He’s climbing today.”

I follow Carson up the stairs, the wood banister smooth under my palm. Carson turns right at the top and enters a square-shaped room with two big windows, one that looks down on the garage, andthe other that faces the street, but is mostly a view of the giant tree with its gnarled trunk and thick branches.

I inhale a slow breath, but the giddy feeling in my chest must show on my face because Carson tilts his head and smiles. “Is this gonna work okay?”

I swallow the painful lump in my throat. “It’s great.”

He laughs. “All right then.”

We head back downstairs, and Carson follows me to the truck.

“You don’t have to help,” I tell him.

“Would you rather I grab a beer and a lawn chair and throw pinecones at you? ‘Cause that’s the alternative.”

I laugh. “Suit yourself.”

We each take a box, this time heading through the front door. Carson asks me questions about Alaska and my ferry trip down the Inside Passage, and about my former job at the train yard. Many trips later and he’s still talking, and though we’re moving at a good pace, he’s never out of breath.

“Where are your skis?” he asks when we return to the truck for the final load.

I wipe my brow with my sleeve. “Um, I don’t have any. I’m not much of a skier.”

He recoils like I’m crazy. “What?”

Shit, did I miss that in the contract fine print? “Is that a problem?”

He’s still so shocked that his mouth is an O. “Well, I mean, I guess you can get around on the sleds.”

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