Page 29 of Hate You, Maybe
Yeah, Dex. Definitely.
Trying to make her laugh, let alone like me, could drop us into dangerous territory. The less of an enemy I become to her, the more guilty I’ll feel when I end up landing the grant instead of her. Still, after the debacle with her name tag and the cabin assignments, I just wanted a moment of levity.
We have to share the same space the next couple nights, not to mention demonstrate cooperation to Bob and Hildy during the day, so the tightrope between us is already stretched thin. Might as well climb on and crawl forward one inch at a time, hoping for the best.
Sayla reaches our cabin first and fishes the keys out from under the mat while I wrangle our bags up the stairs to the porch. The sun’s a little higher in the sky now, and I’m starting to sweat from the effort. She opens the door andholds the screen for me while I bypass a set of Adirondack chairs and step inside.
“Now who’s the gentleman?” she says with a smirk.
“You are, Sailor. Clearly.”
The place is surprisingly clean and airy. The wide-planked floors look recently swept, and daylight streams through a large window across the room. Two single beds flank the window with—as promised—enormous antlers mounted above the log headboards. Each bed sports a couple of decent-looking pillows, and the quilts are made from squares of fabric printed with things like bears, pine trees, and deer on them.
At the foot of each mattress is a folded blanket. Gray. Probably wool. A single ceiling fan spins overhead in lazy circles. For now, the door to the bathroom is wide open, offering a view to the world’s tiniest shower, a toilet, and a pedestal sink.
“Welp. This is it.” I shrug. “Home sweet home.”
Sayla lets the screen slam shut with athwackand grabs her leather bag. “First things first,” she says, ducking into the bathroom.
Right. Fair enough.
Sharing space with a woman who’s not related to me is a new experience. Forget the fact that this woman isn’t exactly a fan of mine. Since I’m not sure how to behave, I just stand there, shifting my weight, feeling kind of weird. Two minutes later, there’s a flush and the sound of running water, then Sayla pops back out. On the floor to the right of the bathroom, there’s a basket of towels rolled up into tubes. She dries her hands on one, then hangs it on an iron hook behind her.
“So.” I nod to indicate the beds. “Which one do you want?”
“I don’t care.” She hitches her shoulders, the picture of indifference. As for me, what’s happening inside my guts is awhole lot of … difference. I just want to get this right with her. And I’m not sure how.
“I’ll take the bed by the bathroom then.” I drop my duffel on top. “The other one’s closer to the outlet.”
“You don’t have to do me any favors.”
I hoist an eyebrow. “You mean anymorefavors.”
She wheels her bag over to the opposite bed and sets her bag on top. “You pretty much begged to carry my luggage.”
“I also stuck up for you with the name tag.” I sink onto the bed next to my duffel. “And with the cabin assignment screw-up, I offered to trade rooms.”
She smirks. “You were just trying to prove to Bob and Hildy that you’re more flexible than I am. Admit it.”
“Maybe.” I scratch my beard. Caught. “But you had the same idea.”
She cocks her chin. “Anyway, my real name’s still written in Sharpie, and we’re sharing a cabin. So those battles didn’t exactly end in victory.”
“Yet.” I unzip my duffel, rummaging for the box of protein bars. I pull it out. Hold it up. “Don’t forget, I offered you food.”
“Which I didn’t take.” She squares her shoulders. “Look, I know this is a rare conundrum for you, Dex, but you’re not going to win me over this week.”
“Noted.” A smile tugs at my mouth. She’s a stubborn one, all right. And I kind of don’t mind the fact that her lips are pursed. “No more favors for Sailor.”
“And don’t call me Sailor.” She frowns. “Ever.”
“Heard.”
With a soft grunt, she drops onto her mattress next to her bag. “On that note, we should probably set up some basic ground rules, for while we’re sharing this space.”
“Good idea.”
“In fact, let’s count this as our first act of collaboration.”She slides a clipboard from her bag. And another clipboard. Then a third. Each one has a different colored pen attached at the top, plus matching sticky notes. She lines them up, and her shoulders settle. Like these are her emotional support clipboards, and she can finally relax.
