Page 31 of Silent Is The Heart

He gives me an optimistic smile that doesn’t hide the fear in his eyes. His expression tells me everything I need to know. He doesn’t have a damn clue, and I probably just ate the man’s last dime… with the wrong fucking fork.

The pedestal I put him on topples. All my anger, bitterness, and the fog of unrealistic expectations that clouded my judgment fizzle into oblivion. He’s just a man. Just a man trying to survive in the same shit show calledlifethat I am.

Maybe he always was. I was just too young and naïve and angry to see it.

Shit.

CHAPTER 17

Aaron

I think I’ll just live here… in this tub. I can drain the water each time it gets cold and run more. The shape of the old pedestal basin fits my exhausted body, creating a swaddling sensation that is the most comforting thing I’ve felt since my childhood bed. I don’t feel so empty with the water all around me. I serve a purpose here, filling this space.

I’ve been staring at the white ceramic wall tiles for over two hours. Their brightness under the morning light that’s seeping through the window makes the room feel sanitized, my soul clean, less heavy.

Shit. The water’s getting cold again.

Closing my eyes, common sense reminds me I should call my mother, concoct some type of story about how my truck is in the shop, and ask if I can borrow her car so I can get to work tomorrow. I can’t live in a bathtub. At least, not this one. George owns it, not me.

Pulling the drain plug, the gurgle of the water is a depressing sound, sucking down my temporary moment of ignorance of the reality awaiting me. I should be more preoccupied with my situation than the audience I had two days ago when Easton dropped me off, but avoidance is an addiction.

I can’t believe he had to see that. I didn’t think things could get any worse. Laughing as I step out and grab my towel, I know that’s a lie. Of course, they can get worse. That’s the one-way direction my life has had. I just didn’t think I couldfeelworse than I already have been.

Easton grew up rough and with little from my recollection of his file and our discussions at Hampton. I doubt he’d judge me. He certainly didn’t when he was here Friday afternoon. If anything, he seemed to be concerned and spared me my non-existent dignity. Still, though… I don’t like the thought of beinglessin his eyes, for some reason.

Tromping back into the bedroom, I rustle through the oversized box that serves as my dresser for anything I couldn’t fit in the tiny closet. It’s been getting chilly at night with Autumn coming in hard and fast. Winter cannot come and go fast enough. I’ve lowered the heat as much as I can tolerate to save on costs, but I’m growing tired of shivering all the time. I can’t afford to get sick, even if I do have medical coverage through work. Thirty-three years old, and I dread the thought of a co-pay visit. How sad is that?

Donning a pair of old sweatpants, sweatshirt, and socks, I haul the blanket off my mattress and wrap it around me like a cloak for extra warmth. At least, George hasn’t said a peep to our parents about my pitiful existence here, if he’s noticed. I told him I was waiting to buy furniture if I found a different place. I’m not sure he’ll continue to believe that after Friday when the repo men called his management number on the sign by the main road for his cottages.

Shuffling to the kitchen, I put a pot on to boil and rummage through my selection ofRamennoodles in the cabinet. Getting food in my stomach might make the pain of lying to mymother more tolerable when I call to grovel for the use of her car.

The sound of vehicle doors slamming shut outside makes me jump. Do repo men work on Sundays? I have nothing left that’s eligible to be repossessed, no other loans that had collateral listed. God, I hope it isn’t George coming to give me an inquisition or… kick me out.

He wouldn’t, would he? I know he was embarrassed by the activity the other day, but the cottages are spread at least half a mile apart, so I doubt any of his other tenants saw.

Hustling to the front door, I spy a black van in my driveway with red lettering emblazoned on the side of it. S&H Tattoo. Easton?

There’s a shiny red pickup truck parked next to it with furniture in the back of it. That woman from the shop, Shannon, and that guy, Fro, head toward the back, lowering the tailgate.

Opening the door, I step out onto the porch, blinking through the last of the dew burning off under the mid-morning sun. I find yet another vehicle in the party—a silver SUV that looks like its backend is loaded to the gills with boxes. There’s a small army of tatted men and women on my lawn. In the middle of them, pointing like he’s directing them, is Easton.

“Morning!” Shannon calls, throwing me a wave and a smile as she and Fro slide a bed frame out of the back of the truck.

I wave back, dumbly. I’m too distracted by the sight of Easton and Wolf hauling a couch out of the back of the van. They turn and start heading my way, toward my front steps.

“What…what is this?” I babble, moving out of the way so I don’t get run over when it becomes clear they have no intention of stopping.

I know Wolf is deaf, which explains why he doesn’t look at or answer me, but Easton isn’t. Granted, he’s focused on not dropping the heavy piece of furniture, but I know he had to have heard me.

“Easton, what are you doing?”

He answers, but it’s by way of nodding his head toward the door I left agape. Scrambling past Wolf before there’s no room left for me to pass, I step back inside and hold it back even though I’d prefer they stop and tell me what the heck is going on. Where did this couch come from, and why did Easton bring it here? It looks… new.

Oh my God. Itis. There are still tags on it.

Grunting, Wolf staggers momentarily as they guide it through the doorway. Easton makes a breathy snickering sound at his friend’s expense, which gets him a glare, but then Wolf’s face cracks into a smirk. They set it down near my camping chair in the middle of the living room with a thump and dual breaths of relief.

“Easton…what is…”

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