Page 17 of Deep Gap

“Waylon charged you that much…” for that hole, I catch myself before I say it aloud. He upped the rent, too. By how much I can’t imagine. “It’s just a room. I want two-fifty.”

“Four. Unless I’m paying for each time my butt cheek touches the couch cushion.”

I burst out laughing. She’s got me on that. “Three. My mortgage isn’t that high and you’ll probably get dog hair on your clothes while you’re watching TV.”

“When don’t I have dog hair on my clothes?” She motions to her attire, almost smiling. “I may even feed Jovie and Tallulah table scraps from the fridge when you aren’t looking. Three fifty and I’ll throw in floors and windows. Bathrooms too. Wait! You do hit the bowl, right?” Smartass cocks a defiant chin.

I snort. “Three fifty, and that includes utilities. Wait! You know what a light switch is for, don’t you?” I give Greer a chance to snicker. “We share the chores, but you won’t hear me complain if you run the vacuum more often.” I hold my hand out.

“Is this a trick? You teach me to shake like your dogs and then add in something like you’re buying all the food.” She shies away.

“Greer,” I repeat the growl. She’s exasperating.

But she stands up for herself. She isn’t asking for a handout. And I like that the banter keeps me on my toes.

“Fine.”

“Thank God,” I mutter when she clasps my hand.

“Tallulah sleeps with me,” Greer adds before letting go.

Did she just bait and switch, changing the rules on me?

“On the floor.” I keep her fingers in my grip.

“You expect me to sleep on the floor?” She teases, pressing her lips together and her cheeks flush.

Damn, she’s pretty. But it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.

“I expect you to come get me when you’re done cleaning so we can get your stuff. Tallulah has a bed. I’ll bring it to your room once Trig and I haul over your furniture.”

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I took the bus home from work earlier this week. Showered and changed. And sat criss-cross on my bed looking out at the living room. I can see the TV from where I sleep and could swipe the remote to turn it on and lie back on my pillows.

But I never do.

The couch and rickety other furniture were part of the package at my old apartment. Byron and Trig left those things there. I didn’t even want the sofa cover. They stored the pots and pans I cooked with in the garage rafters. Byron has his own.

Around noon, I reorganize my few possessions, fold my clothes into the drawers, and wipe down the bathroom that I use. After that, I run the vacuum in anticipation of Byron taunting me with “missed a spot” wherever the lines in the carpet disappear. I dust, and I hid for forty-eight hours that I had washed the windows. Byron grumbled at me until his stomach growled.

“What’s that smell?”

“It is either Pet Fresh, Windex, or dinner,” I said in a pick-your-poison manner.

“You cook?” Bryon approached the stockpot on the stove, lifting the lid and inhaling.

He’d been out the first few evenings I was here and I’d eaten the leftovers pulled from my fridge.

“Not as well as I clean. But I ran out of craft glue finishing the glass tree and got bored. I’ll replace what I took from your pantry when I get out of work tomorrow.” When I’d planned to stop for more glue.

I’ve always preferred the selection at the craft store on this side of Brighton, and the grocery stores are well stocked. Although they cost a bit more, I don’t have to hoard my pennies as tightly now that Waylon isn’t fucking me over.

Still holding the lid askew, he blinked. “You don’t have to do that. Can we eat now?”

I agreed and somehow got talked into making dinner with Byron the rest of the week. Having someone around to chat with has been a pleasant change of pace. Sometimes he leaves the dishes to me, other evenings I do the same and play with the dogs. Last night, he turned on a movie and emptied a bag of microwave popcorn into a bowl to share. Tallulah and Jovie snuggled up on the couch between us. I might have intentionally dropped a few kernels.

“I see what you’re doing, sneak.”

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