Page 12 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
Why did I say that? I got it right. Why couldn’t I just say it like it was? I remembered the authoritative handwriting on his note. Why was I so fixated on his handwriting?
Because it had told me what to do, and it’d led me astray.
He burst out laughing again, holding his belly, the tears running down his face. “I’ll say.” After a moment, he calmed down, blew out a breath like, “Whoooooo,” and said, “Yeah girl, you got it wrong. I told you the second door on the left.”
No he didn’t. “No, you wrote ‘right.’”
A confused look passed over his face, as if he were genuinely perplexed. “I did? Aww, fuck.” He reached out and touched my cheek with the back of his hand. I tried not to flinch. He noticed my reaction, because something flickered in his eyes, but he still kept the smile on his face, and his hand felt light and gentle. “Sorry, then. Not only did I get it wrong, but I didn’t know I was gonna be home.” His eyes went up and down my face, his apology real.
“Who was that?”
“What?”
“The woman. You know. Your girlfriend. Is she going to be around a lot?”
He twitched his eye. “She’s not my girlfriend. And no. She won’t be. We’re done.”
“Just like that?”
“I haven’t had a relationship for a while.”
So he’s a manwhore. Just has sex with the closest woman around.
I filed him in the folder marked, “Stay away.”
The old dog rolled over on the porch and yawned. Mikey looked over my shoulder toward my car parked on the street. “Need help moving in?”
No, I could do it myself. Just like everything. And I didn’t want him to see how much food I’d just bought because I was out of control. But I said, “Yeah, that would be great.”
If I could have kicked myself, I would have. That would’ve been a bad idea, though, since my toe finally felt better.
He followed me to my car. With him loping behind me, I tuned in to his presence.
He was looking at me. At my behind. Every move I made I did in response to what I thought he was going to do.
My feet crunched on a dry leaf, and it embarrassed me like a fart.
He didn’t hide at all. Instead, he just flashed me his smile, grabbed four large duffel bags at once, and headed into the house, stepping over a slowly hopping rabbit as he went up the stairs.
I managed to take the Target bag of contraband in without him knowing. And after a few trips, we moved my clothes, books, and toiletries into the proper bedroom. While I was sweating, he looked like he could run up and down the stairs for a living.
Life wasn’t fair.
When he helped me bring up my last duffel bag, he lingered in the doorway, did a pull-up from the top of it, and gave me a huge grin with a dimple. “Get set up. Then come find me. It’s almost dinnertime.”
Dimple.
Did he say something? I responded by nodding, and he left.
Surrounded by my stuff, I paced around my things in the small aisle we’d left to maneuver.
I’d picked the wrong place off Craigslist. The room was fine. Actually, it was more than fine, it was homey and lovely. The large, vintage room was furnished with an antique double bed, matching Victorian dresser, and end tables. The room echoed, with no rug on the floor yet and nothing on the walls.
A crack extended across the white plaster ceiling of my room, about a third of the way across on the diagonal. Not the low, acoustic ceiling with flecks of glitter embedded in it I was used to. Here, the high ceilings opened the room, giving it a comfortable airiness.
It was charming.
But my hot, male roommate wasnotcharming. He made me do stupid stuff, like see his butt. He laughed at the fact that I saw his butt. And oh my, his butt.
