Page 47 of Saving Ren
“Need me to talk to her?”
“Nah. I’ve got a preteen daughter who’s full of attitude; I think I can handle a mouthy little Essex bird.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Don’t be deceived by her lack of height. When she’s pissed off, Lauren could take on a bear and I’d worry for its welfare. If her sharp tongue don’t take you down, her fist will.”
“Duly noted.”
“Seriously though, she’s been through a lot, is she doing okay?”
“She had a bit of a wobble on the drive here, I think shock set in, but she’s had a shower, has some clean clothes on, and has had something to eat.”
“Go you, quite the little Florence Nightingale.”
“Who?”
“No one, I’m just showing my age.”
I smile as I unlock my car, knowing full well who Florence is; my mum was a nurse after all.
The black sack Jo put Lauren’s clothes in has emptied its contents over my back seat, and when I start stuffing Lauren’s cardigans back into it, I see just how bloodstained it is.
“Hey, would you do me a favour in the morning?”
“Go for it. Whadya need?”
“It’s not for me, it’s for Ren. Would you pop into Target and get her some basics? I’m gonna dump the cardigan she had on last night. She doesn’t need to be seeing that.”
“Gabe, anyone ever tell you you’re a sweetheart? Why haven’t you been snapped up and married before now? And Ren? That is seriously cute.”
I pull the bag of meds from the car, leave everything else of Lauren’s inside and close the door. Pausing at my front door, I allow a flash of a memory from a life that now feels like it wasn’t actually mine to hit.
“I was married, remember? All be it briefly, but I was married.” I deflect by ignoring the Ren remark and make Jo feel bad by reminding her of my failed marriage.
“Shit, yeah. Sorry, I forgot all about that.”
“I try to.”
“Sorry.”
“Honestly, not a problem. Listen, I’m gonna sort Lauren out with some pain meds. If you could grab her some clothes tomorrow, that’d be great.”
“No worries.”
I end the call, head back into the house and up the stairs to find a sleeping Lauren curled into the corner of my sofa.
* * *
After a debatewith myself as to whether I should just leave her to sleep where she is, I eventually carry her to my room. Despite lifting her as carefully as I can, she half wakes up, mumbles something about a ‘suntannedie surfie sex God’ before curling back up on her side and snoring quietly.
I watch her for a minute, wondering what the fuck it is I think I’m doing with this woman in my bed. This isn’t me; this isn’t what my life has been about for the last however many years, and now look at me. Falling all over myself to look after a woman I’ve only known for twenty-four hours.
Zac’s words from last night resonate through my head. . . ‘Mate, when you meet that person,yourperson. . . when that happens, you’ll know, believe me. That first time you look at her, something will just click, and it’ll be like, ‘now that’s what I’m talking about,’ and that’s when you’ll be truly fucked.’
And right now, that’s what I am. Just minutes after Zac had said all that, it happened. I laid eyes on Lauren, and something happened that I would describe as more of a shift than a click. A shift from only having a vague indifference to most of the women I chat to in the pub on a Friday night to really wanting to talk to her, wanting to know about her.
Feeling like a perv standing over her while she’s so defenceless, I resist the urge to lay a kiss on her cheek. Instead, I rub my palm over my stubble and head back out to lie on my sofa.
I flip the telly on, but can’t get into anything, so turn it off after about ten minutes. I sneak into my bathroom, clean my teeth, and grab a pillow from next to where Lauren is now snoring. Flipping on the lamp on the opposite side of the bed, I turn the rest of the lights out, and head back to the sofa.
