Page 29 of Zeppelin
It’s still dark outside when Ginny stirs beside me. I’m a light sleeper from force of habit. A lot of the club’s work used to be done at night, and if not, most are late nights anyway. I’ve never needed a lot of hours of sleep. It doesn’t have anything to do with the club. It’s more a product of coming from a hungry childhood in more ways than one. I was in survival mode for so long that even as an adult, I find it hard to relax my body, even in sleep.
It’s pitch black in the room without even the most basic light. I’ve noticed that the countryside is exceptionally dark. It’s not like the city, where there’s a residual glow, even if you don’t have a hall light, a lamp, or a nightlight.
Ginny throws back the blankets on her side of the bed.
My phone is on the washstand by the bed. I snatch it up and get the flashlight on.
Ginny’s sitting on the bed bent over, the trashcan with the garbage bag lining it in her lap. I reach out to stroke her back or gather her long hair up out of her way before she’s sick, but she tosses the trashcan on the ground frantically and leaps up. She wore fuzzy pajama bottoms like it’s the heart of winter, and a little tank top to bed. She rushes to the dresser across the room and frantically grabs the flashlight off the top. She clicks it on and flees the room.
I throw back the sheet that’s covering me. Without AC, the house is more than warm enough. I didn’t need even thatlayer, but I only have my boxers to sleep in. As usual, my dumbass forgot a change of clothes.
“Ginny?”
I follow as she flies downstairs. She storms through the house and throws open the back door. At least I don’t have that rickety porch to worry about. There are a few stairs back here and she handles them well.
But where the fuck is she going in the dead of night? There are wild animals out here. Coyotes and bats and shit. She could step on something sharp in her bare feet. Aren’t farmyards notorious for having crap buried in the soil all over the place? Isn’teverywhere?
“Ginny!”
She spins back around as I miss the bottom step, catching myself but nearly annihilating my ankle. “Go back inside!”
Her hissed command and her pale skin raise the hair on the back of my neck. “What are you doing out here? You should stay in the house when it’s dark like this. There could be anyone or anything out here!”
“I need to be out here.”
“If you’re sick, that’s okay. I’ll boil some water so you can have a bath, and give you a new trash bag or find you a bucket or something. We’ll figure it out.”
“It’s not that kind of issue.”
“Okay. You have to pee.” That’s right. Pregnant women have to use the bathroom more frequently. “I hear that. I’ll come with you.”
“Jesus, no!”
“I’ll stand outside and wait for you then.” I’ll make sure she’s okay and that she gets back to the house safely.
“Fuck no.”
“Fuck, yes.”
“Go back inside!” She gestures wildly then spins around and resumes speed walking towards the outhouse. It’s set well back in the yard, surrounded by a large bank of trees, almost like the tiny little privy needs its own privacy.
I follow her, but she whirls again. “Iamsick. I’m going to be more than a minute out here.”
“I’ll still wait—”
“For fuck’s sake, I need to go to the bathroom and you arenotstanding outside listening to that!’
Oh. Whoa. I’ve never seen Ginny so mad, shooting sparks and spitting at me. She’s farmgirl tough, but she’s also mortified. She wants her privacy. She doesn’t want me to see her like this, at her worst.
We had sex, and after, we had tea, and she read a few chapters from a book in her living room that wasn’t half bad. We shared the same bed, but we didn’t cuddle. We had separate blankets. We’re here together because I’m helping her out. We had sex because… well, because we needed each other, but that moment didn’t extend past the cellar. We’re not a couple. Even if we were, I have a feeling that Ginny is used to taking care of everyone else. She doesn’t like being the one cared for. I love how independent she is, but that doesn’t mean I’m okay with leaving her out here for the coyotes to devour.
“I’ll get the stove on and heat some water for a bath,” I grumble, trying to reason that she’s lived in the middle of nowhere her whole life and has somehow not been taken by any wild animal so far.
She nods curtly, spinning around and tossing her words over her shoulder as she marches towards the trees, the flashlight beam bobbing madly. “The big metal tub is in the kitchen. Just fill it in there. It’ll be easier,” she says as she reaches the outhouse a few strides later and slams the door.
I’d maybe feel better if I knew there was an ironclad lock in there, but not really.
I have to turn back to the house, grumbling to myself in the dark about her living like this. It’s her choice. I get it, but I don’t have to like it. It’s a conversation I’ve had with myself a hundred times after I had it with her.
