Page 76 of Clean Out of Luck

His relationships all last a span of a few months. I guess it’s something we have in common—short-lived relationships.

How can he think we should be a thing? I don’t want to lose the relationship I have with Wade. I grew up with him. He’s special to me. And unfortunately, I know for a fact that if I were to end up in a relationship with him, he would have the power to break my heart.

A truck zooms past me, the rush of air blowing my hair in my face. Wade honks his horn at the other driver and I turn the final corner to home.

I pedal a little faster, barely dodging Lincoln and his dog where they’re walking in front of The Serendipity.

“Hey!”

“Sorry!” I call back to him.

I keep pedaling and go all the way to the side exit in the pocket park. I have to get in and lock the door before he parks his car.

I jump off my bike and carry it down the stairs. I grab my key out of my purse, hurrying to unlock the door and get inside. It’s wet, it’s raining, and it’s muddy. It’s like the weather decided to match my mood. I know carrying my bike through my building is going to leave a disgusting mess, but I can lock my bike in the storage space in the basement. It’ll stay dry, and I’ll be safe inside before Wade can get to me.

I shrink when I hear footsteps and glance at the top of the stairs to see Wade hurrying down. I fling the door open, trying to get inside with my bike, but he’s right behind me. He catches the door before I can close it and follows me inside.

“What do you think you’re doing? You almost got hit by that truck!” It’s not only the weather that’s gone dark. Wade’s expression is positively thunderous.

“Oh, you’re a fine one to talk, Mr. Racing-Toward-Me-In-Your-SUV!”

“You can’t just hide from this conversation, Scarlett.”

“And you can’t just barrel your way through everything!”

“It’s because you’re being juvenile and not letting us talk this out!”

“You’re tracking mud all over my house!” I blame him for the dirt and road grime that’s dripping off the bike in my kitchen.

I clean the bike, the counter, and go to grab the mop out of the closet. Maybe if I start cleaning—no eye contact with Wade—I can just go about my day and avoid this conversation altogether.

I don’t even know what to say. I don’t even know what I really want.

Wade kicks off his shoes and launches them toward the front door, somehow not leaving a spot of dirt anywhere else as they land on the rug there.

“Scarlett, I can’t keep this up.”

“Oh, good, then don’t. Feel free to leave anytime.”

I pull out my bucket and fill it with a little soapy water for the mop.

“Scarlett, I know this makes you uncomfortable. But ignoring it isn’t going to make this go away.”

I turn around and wave the mop at him. “I don’t know what I want.”

He shakes his head twice. “I think you do know what you want, and I think you’re too scared to say it.”

He reaches for the mop. Soon, we both have a hold on it, tugging back and forth. He has an unfair advantage with those ridiculous muscles.

“You can’t make me say what I’m thinking!”

He gives the mop a little tug. “Then you are thinking something, aren’t you?” he asks, a smirk on his face.

I tug extra hard on the mop, and he slides forward a step on the floor.

“You got my socks!” he complains and gives a hard yank on the mop. “I want you to tell me exactly what you want!”

I glare at him. We’re at a standoff, each of us holding an end of the mop, him standing there in his wet socks.

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