Page 21 of Paradox
“Take your shirts off,” he tells me while getting back in the cab.
Picking up the jacket, I hang it on the corner of the passenger door. Shivering as I go, I peel off my sweatshirt and the t-shirt underneath it.
“What about my pants?” I ask, handing off my clothes to him.
“If you’re that desperate to get naked in front of me, go right ahead.”
With a sigh, I bow my head, put on the jacket, and zip it up.
After collecting all the washing, I climb back into the truck, and before I can even get the door shut, Eden is pulling away.
Neither of us say anything for the longest time. Not that I should be the one talking, anyway, because I'm not a child, and that wasn't my fault.
“We’re here,” Eden says with no emotion whatsoever as he parks the truck about fifteen yards from the bank of a lake so beautiful it could be a computer screensaver. It’s not so big thatyou’d have to squint to make out what's on the other side, but it’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen in real life.
“Quit staring and get your ass out.”
I don’t want to.
I want to take these covers back to my shack, get in my sleeping bag, and hug them until I’m not as alone as I feel.
But I don’t say anything—it’s not worth it.
He hasn’t said a word to me since getting back in the truck.
He’s like a zombie, just blankly staring forward.
There’s nothing behind his eyes. No fight. No desire for revenge.
Get some sticks and dry leaves, if you can find them.
Check the glove compartment for old receipts.
Sit down and keep warm while your shit dries.
He complied without resistance, and I fucking hate it.
He’s been sitting by the fire—knees up to his chest as he hugs them—for half an hour.
My t-shirt and flannel were dry within ten minutes, but I’m still freezing my tits off. I’d love to be standing over there, drying my jeans, but I just can’t be near him.
Why the hell did I even do that?
And what the hell do I have to feel sorry about?
He’s the asshole who didn’t have his seatbelt on.
He’s the idiot who stared me down like he wasn’t scared shitless that we’d crash at any moment.
Sliding the last container of water onto the bed of my truck, I look at Jin through one of the topper windows.
Throwing the detergent and a drying frame into the tin tub, I close up my truck and look at the lazy prick; just sitting there.
“They’re dry enough,” I tell him, jerking my chin towards his clothes. “Put them back on, or don’t—I don’t give a fuck. But if those covers aren't washed and dried by the time I get back, there’s no match tonight.”
Still staring out at the lake, he asks, "When will you be back?”
“Twelve, or thereabouts.”
