Page 66 of Versions Of Us

She hesitates, twirling a blonde curl between her fingers. Her eyes wander away from mine, and I realise I’ve done a sufficient job of intimidating her. “I’m not really in the best place right now. He was kind enough to offer.”

“You’re saying that you are essentially homeless,” I state.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

She looks down at her phone again and I realise that I’ve seen it before. Brand new and still in the box on Henley’s dash the day my car broke down.

She looks back up apologetically. “Sorry, I’m just waiting on a call. Had a job interview yesterday.”

I feel sick at myself. I could argue that my words were based on general curiosity, but I know deep down that they were cruel. I wanted to make her feel less.

Less than me.

Less than Henley.

And I have.

“Did he buy you that phone?” I ask her.

She nods. “He’s a good guy.”

“I really want to agree with you on that, but I’ve had a different experience.”

“He speaks really highly of you, Kristen.” She looks up at me earnestly, waiting for my response. I’m afraid I can’t give her the one she’s hoping for.

“I’ll get that caramel latte for you.” I turn on my heel and head back to the kitchen.

It kills me that this girl seems to know more about Henley’s current situation than I do. Like the two of them share some kind of secret that I’m not privy to. An entire world existing between them that I’m not a part of.

But none of this is her fault, I realise.

She’s homeless for Christ’s sake. And I’ve let my bitterness make me ugly, treating her as though she doesn’t matter just because I’m uncomfortable with their closeness.

When I return to her table with her hot drink, she’s staring aimlessly out the window. Not unlike the first time I met her, she seems stuck in her head. She emanates resilience and determination, but her insecurities are not hidden as deep as she’d like to think.

“How is it?” I ask her, attempting to redeem myself for the harshness I’d bestowed upon her no more than five minutes ago. “Living in the loft, I mean.”

“Okay, I guess.” She laughs nervously, almost weirded out at my effort to be friendly.

“He told me he sleeps on the couch,” I muse.

“He does,” she replies. “He’s too much of a gentleman to let me take it.”

There aren’t many people that would describe Henley as a gentleman. He used to reserve his manners, his tenderness, for me. Jealousy rears its ugly head again at the thought of her sleeping where he once did. WhereIonce did. But I push it back down and swallow my pride.

“Look, I know things must be pretty cramped over there. I mean, does that place even have a decent bathroom.”

She eyes me warily, unsure of where I’m going with the conversation. She stutters a short, “Uh, okay?” But she doesn’t answer my question.

I take a breath, giving myself the chance to back out of what I’m about to do. Her eyes search my face. She can’t read me.

“I live alone. In an apartment not far from here,” I begin. Her eyes narrow. She gives a slight shake of her head, clueless as to why I’m telling her this. “If you’d like, you could stay with me instead.”

Once the words are out of my mouth, I can’t take them back, so I continue. “I have a spare bed. It’s only a single but the mattress is decent.”

Her brow knits in confusion. “You’d really let me stay with you when you know nothing about me?”

Why am I doing this again? I could say that it makes sense for her to live with another female, but the main reason I offer is to distance her from my ex-boyfriend. “If Henley can trust you, then I guess I can too.”

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