Page 9 of Bad at Love

“Be sure your hair is combed, not brushed—”

I zone out after that, not listening to another word she says. Until she’s screaming into the receiver and I’m startled back to the present.

“Sorry, bad reception.”

“My goodness, I’ve never dealt with such a rude child before, Gabriel. If only you could be more like your brothers.” She huffs. “Have a lovely evening.”

She ends the call and I drop my cell to the floor. Resting my head back and slinking down against the couch, I focus on breathing. On calming myself. And breathing. Lots and lots of breathing.

Chapter Six

Storm

I was hoping to visit my mother before meeting Gabriel at his house, but I overslept and now I’m running late.

The Uber drops me off in front of the house at 10:07. Less than ten minutes late isn’t so very late. I stare up at the house before going up the walkway. It’s nothing like I expected, considering it looks different from the photos. It’s still nice, not like it’s falling apart or missing the roof, but all those pretty flowers? They’re dead. Every plant out here is rotting and crispy like it hasn’t been watered in years. Nuts, since this is Seattle, and isn’t it supposed to rain all the time? The grass in the yard is overgrown, riddled with weeds, and the gate on the fence is hanging on by one hinge. I don’t touch it as I make my way toward the house. The front door swings open while I’m walking up the stairs, and I pause with my foot on the top step.

“You’re late.”

The guy standing there can’t be much older than me. A few years, maybe. Not the type of guy I’d hang out with. Or rather, not the kind of guy who would want to hang out with me. I’m cool with whoever. Open and carefree. As long as you’re not a douche, we can be cool. I’m not sure what I expected when it came to Gabriel, but this wasn’t it. I thought he’d be some older grumpy guy who’s had a hard life.

This guy looks like he spends his weekends playing Dungeons & Dragons. He’s not ugly though—far from it. His curly hair and thick-framed glasses give him a dorky look, kind of like that guy from the show Numb3rs, but better. He has a defined jaw and full lips that could make him a lot of money. And those eyes… damn, they’re nice. A stormy shade of grey surrounded by thick, dark lashes.

“Uh, yeah… sorry about that. I overslept.”

“You overslept?” he asks accusingly, causing me to pause halfway up the steps.

“Yes…” I respond carefully. Clearing my throat, I add, “I’m not a morning person.”

“Ten am is closer to the afternoon than morning. It’s hardly morning at all,” he huffs out.

I stand there, staring at the guy, unsure what to do. Does he want me to leave? Did I fuck this up too? When he says nothing, I look around, wondering if this is a prank. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

“Am I being recorded? Is this a joke?” His brow furrows, and I grin. “It is, right? Like for a TV show? I knew this couldn’t be real. I mean, what kind of person gets upset over a toilet seat?” I huff out a laugh as I finish walking up the steps, but when I reach the door, he’s glaring. “Oh…” I take a step back, fearing he’s about to throw a punch. The last thing I need is a black eye. He doesn’t look like the fighting type, but he does look angry.

“This was a bad idea,” he mutters, then slams the door shut right in my face, causing a gust of air to rustle my hair.

Well, I definitely fucked that up.

I run a hand through my hair and look out at the street. Part of me wants to walk away and say fuck it, but another part of me can’t do it. I hate how much I need this. So I suck up my pride and knock on the door.

He opens it, still glaring. I put on my best smile. I’ve been told it’s a good one. Award-winning. Let’s see if it can win this guy over.

“Look, I’m sorry. I want to apologize for what I just said. I have this issue where I speak before I think, and it gets me into trouble sometimes.”

He narrows his eyes, still standing there without a word. It’s then I realize he’s dressed like a teacher. Khaki pants, light blue shirt, navy blue vest. The outfit isn’t fitting to his age, but what the hell do I know?

“I promise to put the toilet seat down?” I say sheepishly, pulling my shoulders up to my ears. All I’ve got going for me at this point is my charm. If that doesn’t work, I’m royally screwed.

He looks upwards, muttering under his breath. Something about someone murdering him and hiding the body? Sounds weird, but definitely what I heard.

“Come in,” he growls, stepping aside.

I smile at him as I step inside, blowing out a breath of relief that I don’t see any lampshades made of skin.

“This is nice,” I comment.

It’s also spotless and minimally furnished, set up like a showroom and not somewhere livable. But again, no skin-lamps.

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