by Cole Gibsen
“Sure.” I pull her car keys from my pocket. “I guess you’re going to have to figure out how to hotwire a car while you’re at it.”
She pauses, looking uncertain.
I sigh and walk down the stairs. I hold the keys out for her, but when she raises a hand, I pull them back to my chest. “Before you take off, can you do me a favor and shut up for one fucking second?”
Frowning, she strokes the puppy’s head. “Fine.”
“I don’t want anything from you, Ash. As I’ve told you before, I’ve got enough shit on my plate. However, my dad was a cop, and the best goddamned man I ever knew—there wasn’t a beggar on the street he wouldn’t find a shelter and hot meal for. I’ll be damned if I dishonor him by turning my back on someone who clearly needs help.”
She opens her mouth but I cut her off before she can talk. “Look, if you can’t afford to pay, I can really use some help around the shop. My schedule is a wreck and I haven’t touched my books in weeks. If you can help me with that, we’ll call it even. I don’t want anything else from you. No strings.”
She’s quiet a moment. It’s a fucking miracle.
The puppy whimpers in her arms.
“What about Hank?” she asks.
“Who?”
She motions to the dog.
“Hank is welcome to stay, too.” I drop her keys in her hands. “The decision is yours.”
Her fingers slowly curl around the keys. She bites her lips and looks from me, to her car, and back to me again. “I think—I’d like to stay.”
I only realize how badly I wanted her to say that when relief washes over me. “Good. Like I said, the place isn’t the greatest. Renting it out got to be too much of a hassle so I haven’t spent a lot of time cleaning it up. I’ll fix the leaky faucet tomorrow, and if you notice anything else, you tell me, okay?”
She places Hank on the top step and grins. “Okay. And I can help clean it up.”
I nod and smile back. “Great. So would you like help carrying your stuff up?”
Her eyes widen. “I can move in tonight? Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
She squeals and throws her arms around me. Before I can stop myself, I wrap my arm around her shoulder, pulling her to my chest. The realization of what I’ve done, our sudden closeness, makes my arms go rigid. Ash stiffens in my grasp. The awkward tension between us grows thick, pushing us apart.
I slide past her and descend the stairs. “I’ll just go get your stuff.”
“Yeah. Okay.” I hear her footsteps disappear into the apartment above me.
I walk to her car, open the backseat, and pull out a backpack and forty-pound bag of dog food. I carry both upstairs, drop them just inside the door, and head out for the rest. After several trips I’ve emptied her car, and yet the apartment barely looks any different.
“You sure this is all you have?” I stare at the mound of clothes I piled on the mattress. “I thought girls had no less than thirty pairs of shoes.”
Ash shrugs while folding the clothes and stacking them in the dresser. I notice the knob to the drawer wiggles in her hand, and I make a mental note to fix that tomorrow, too. “I travel light,” she answers.
I know there’s more to it than that. I can see it in the tightness of her expression, but I don’t press.
Someone knocks at the door and Ash gasps, dropping the shirt she was folding onto the floor.
I frown and fight the urge to go to her. Instead, I walk to the door as a new surge of anger rolls through me. I’d sure love to meet whoever made her so afraid. I crack my knuckles just thinking about it.
Outside the door a delivery guy waits with the pizza I ordered when I first entered the apartment. It’d been wishful thinking Ash would still be here when he arrived. But even if she decided to leave, I’d still have pizza.
I pay the guy and shut the door behind me. Ash watches me with a curious expression. I shrug. “There’s no food in the apartment.”
“I can feed myself.”
“Can you?” I arch an eyebrow. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”
She turns away, a flush burning her cheeks. So now I know why she’s so damn skinny. I make another mental note to pick her up some groceries tomorrow before work. I open the box and, after offering her a slice, I go downstairs to the studio to retrieve two sodas, but after remembering the incident from last night, change my mind and grab two water bottles instead.
When I return upstairs she’s curled in the old brown recliner that used to belong to my dad. I’d rescued it from the curb where my mom had placed it. Mom argued it was time for a change, that the chair was old, ripped, and she was better off with a new one.
Maybe. But seeing Ash tucked into it, with her knees drawn to her chest, I’m glad I brought it up here. Some things are worth holding onto.
I notice she hasn’t touched the pizza box sitting on the chipped coffee table, despite the fact her eyes are practically boring into the cover. I flop on the couch and push the box toward her. “Don’t you like pepperoni? Eat.”
She shakes her head, still not looking at me. “I’m not allowed to eat first, especially when the food isn’t mine.”
What the fuck? “What are you talking about? I bought it for both of us.”
She blinks and shakes her head. “Sorry. Just forget it.” She reaches for the box, flips the lid open, and takes a slice. She holds it in her hands, staring at me, waiting.
I grab a slice of my own and lift it to my lips. Ash smiles when I chew, and bites into her own piece. She devours the slice in a matter of seconds and eagerly reaches for the box. She pauses with her fingers hovering over the pizza, and looks up at me. “This okay?”
I nod without saying anything and she digs in. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll let loose with the flurry of insults I have for whoever did this to her. She acts as if eating is a privilege—something that has to be earned. Who the fuck made her believe that? Chris? Her parents?
Watching her devour another slice, I tear into a piece of my own. I chew with more force than necessary, using my teeth to expel the anger building inside me.
We finish the entire pizza in silence. I clear off the coffee table, slipping the pizza box and the empty water bottles inside a plastic bag. “I’ll take these with me when I leave. Just so you know, there’s a recycling bin as well as a dumpster behind the shop.”
I glance at the clock blinking on the stove. It’s creeping toward midnight. Slowly, I stand. “I should get going.”
Ashlyn squeezes her knees to her chest and nods. “Yeah.” Even though she’s looking at me, her eyes are unfocused and I know she’s somewhere else entirely. I wonder what she sees when she falls into herself like that. Given the tight way she’s holding herself, it can’t be good. I wish to hell I could go inside her mind and chase the demons away.
I start for the door only to stop. Something keeps me rooted to the room, a force I don’t understand—and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to. I turn and she’s still curled into the chair staring at nothing I can see. She looks so vulnerable, and it’s all I can do to stand my ground and not go to her and scoop her in my arms. “Ash—”
She blinks, her gaze flicking to my face.
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask. “Do you want me to stay?” I regret the words the second they leave my mouth. What the hell am I thinking? I’m supposed to be putting distance between us, not spending the night with her.
The corner of her mouth twitches, and she quirks an eyebrow.
“Not like that,” I add quickly. “It’s just, I know staying in a new place can be tough the first night, even a little scary.”
“No scarier than sleeping at a rest stop,” she says.
“And you know this how?”
She purses her lips, a flush warming her cheeks as if this isn’t a secret she’d planned on letting slip.
“What happened to you?” I ask. “A girl your age shouldn’t be without a place to live, or
sleeping out of her car.”
She turns away, but not before I see the shame, heavy in her eyes. “We don’t get to choose what happens to us, Lane. We only decide what we’re going to do with the shit handed to us. I’m not going to let my past own me.” She glances at me over her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter where I’ve lived before, I live here now.” She holds her arms out, gesturing to the shabby apartment, and smiles. “Thanks to you.”
I’m not quite sure how to respond, so I don’t. Besides, I’ve dealt with my own fair share of shit and know where she’s coming from. Do I want to be judged for being the screw-up teenager who had a one-night stand, or for working hard to give my daughter the best life possible? If she doesn’t want to discuss pasts, I’m only too happy to comply.
Minutes pass. It’s well past Harper’s bedtime, and I silently scold myself for not calling her to say good night before Emily put her to bed. I hope Harper isn’t mad. I’ll have to get donuts in the morning to make it up to her. I don’t know what it is about Ash, how she can distract me in ways no other woman’s done before. It’s not a good thing, for me or Harper.
“I’ll check on you tomorrow,” I say, and Ash nods. “My number is taped to the fridge if something goes wrong with the apartment or you need—” I bite off the end of the sentence, as I’m not sure exactly what I have to offer her—what I can offer.
“Thanks,” she says, seeming not to notice my fumble.
I walk to the coffee table and set the apartment key down beside a dried stain of purple nail polish. “Lock the door after I leave, okay?”
She hugs her arms around her chest and nods.
I hesitate at the door. The pull to stay feels like a rope tied around my chest. Still, I have Harper to think about. It’s bad enough I let the one girl I can’t seem to stop thinking about move in above my studio. I’ll have to be careful. She’s already in my head. She can’t invade my heart, too.
“The answer is yes.” Ash speaks the words so softly, I’m not sure my mind isn’t playing tricks on me until I look up and find her large eyes locked on mine.
“The answer to what?”
“Your earlier question.” She hugs herself tighter. “You asked if I wanted you to stay, and the answer is yes.”
I open my mouth to respond, not that I even know how to, but she shakes her head and cuts me off. “But you can’t. I know. You already have someone in your life.” It’s then I realize it’s not my face she’s looking at, but Harper’s name on my chest. “If you—if we—” She shakes her head. “No good can come from it.”
“No good,” I echo. We stare at each other, seconds turning to minutes, as if we’re both trying to figure out how much of ourselves we really have to give.
Slowly, she turns away from me and I have my answer.
Nothing.
Chapter Seventeen
Ashlyn
I’m in the middle of brewing a café Americano when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I place the lid on the steaming cup and slide it over to a man in a business suit, who barely gives me a nod of acknowledgement before he leaves.
I smile at his retreating form and yell at him to come back soon. His mood can’t bring me down—nothing can. Funny how having a place to live can do that.
I slip the phone from my pocket and give the screen a glance—my mother. My smile dissolves. Well, almost nothing can bring me down. I hit the decline button and slip the phone back inside my apron. This is the third time she’s called me in a week. Doesn’t matter. She can call every minute of every day and I’ll still never move back into that hellhole with her—not as long as she remains with him. And thanks to Lane, I don’t have to.
Emily’s at the register ringing up the last person from the morning’s nonstop stream of customers. When she’s finished, I make the woman’s chai tea and hand it to her. She smiles and hands me a dollar, which I tuck into my apron pocket. It’s been a week since I moved into Lane’s apartment, and he still hasn’t given me a definitive answer as far as the cost of rent, telling me my bookkeeping and light cleaning of his shop makes up the difference. Since he won’t take my money, I’ve decided to make small improvements to the place when I can. I refuse to be a freeloader, after all. So first up is a fresh coat of paint.
The second the woman walks out the door, Emily groans and jumps on the counter. “Jesus. I thought we were never going to get a break.”
I nod, even though I’m more focused on the puddle of spilled cream on the counter. After I wipe it clean with a rag, my chest loosens and I can breathe more easily.
Emily watches me, nibbling at piece of pound cake she pulled from the pastry case. “What’s with the cleaning thing? Is it OCD?”
“Probably,” I say, because it’s easier than admitting the real reason I clean—to keep the voice of my stepdad from surfacing.
“Huh.” She swings her legs, crumbs dribbling from her chin. “I read about a guy with OCD who woke up in the middle of the night to comb the tassels of his oriental rug.”
I roll my eyes and reach past her for a cake pop. “I’m not combing rugs in the middle of the night, if that’s what you’re implying.”
She shrugs. “I don’t judge. Besides, I know my brother’s shitty-ass apartment doesn’t have tasseled rugs.”
I stare at the cake pop a moment, realizing the ever-present gnaw of hunger is no longer chewing at my stomach. It must have something to do with the fact that Lane stocked the fridge and cabinets with food—and not just peanut butter and Ramen noodles. The fridge is packed with cheese, lunchmeat, fruits, and veggies. The cabinets are filled with pasta, sauces, and boxes of Hamburger Helper, plus popcorn, chips and cookies. I couldn’t help but notice the amount of high fat items he purchased, almost like he’s trying to tell me something.
I shrug and pop the ball of icing-covered cake in my mouth. “It’s not a shitty-ass apartment.”
She rolls her eyes. “Says the girl who was going to live out of her car. Jesus, Ash! You should have said something to me before it got to that point!”
I drop my gaze to the floor. It’s not that I didn’t want to ask for help, it’s just I don’t know how. When you’ve been beaten down your entire life, you learn it’s easier to accept things the way they are than to suffer the consequences of speaking out. The image of my stepdad appears in my mind. He towers over me with his neck stretched taught and his nostrils flared. His eyes are impossibly wide and streaked through with red webs of blood vessels. His lips are pursed, and I know I have seconds before they open and spew cutting words that will leave scars deep below my skin.
My pulse quickens and the cake turns to dirt in my mouth. The cord around my chest pulls tight, and I try to think of something positive to chase the memory away. “I’m going to paint,” I blurt around the stick in my mouth.
“Cool.” Emily jumps down from the counter. “Want some help? I’ve got nothing going on tonight.”
My first instinct is to refuse. After all, why would she want to help me paint a dingy apartment on a Saturday night? What’s in it for her? The familiar refrain of when people offer help, they usually want something in return, plays in my mind.
I shake my head to silence it. No. I can’t think like that, always suspicious of everyone’s intentions. That’s the old Ash, and I don’t want to be her anymore. The refusal is halfway up my throat when I swallow it back down. “That would be really great.”
“Awesome.” She smiles. “I’ll meet you at your place tonight. You bring the paint and I’ll bring the beer. Sound good?”
Her grin is infectious, and I smile back, despite the niggling insecurity weaving through my head. I still can’t understand why she would want to give up a Saturday night to help me paint.
Maybe, a small voice inside my head whispers, she just likes you.
I want to dismiss the thought, ridiculous as it is. Why would anyone like me? I’m stupid, lazy, ungrateful—a pang of realization stops me before I can add to the list. Those aren’t my words, those are
my stepdad’s words. And as a writer, I should know the difference between making words and becoming them.
I won’t become them.
“I can’t wait,” I say.
Later that night, I exit my car, lugging two gallons of sage green paint with me. The thin wire handles dig into my palms as I trudge across the street. I place them at the foot of the stairs leading up to my apartment.
A lump forms in my throat as I walk the short distance to Lane’s shop door. Knowing I’m going to see him has that effect on me, which I hate. Why should I waste the skip of my heart or the hitch of my breath on a guy I can never have? Not only that, but he’s my landlord now, and I know better than to mix business with pleasure. This apartment is the best thing to ever happen to me, and I’m not about to do anything to risk losing it.
I swallow hard and open the glass door. The curtain dividing the lobby from Lane’s studio is closed, and I can hear the buzz of his needle pulsing behind it. I don’t dare cross the threshold. I made the mistake of pushing through several days ago to find him in the middle of driving a barbell through some guy’s dick. Lane was too busy concentrating on his work, and the guy’s eyes were clenched shut, with tears rolling down his cheeks. Neither one noticed my intrusion, but an impaled penis isn’t an image the mind easily forgets. Needless to say, I vowed never again to open Lane’s curtain without announcing myself first.
“Lane!” I call out.
The buzzing stops. “Yeah?”
All it takes is the sound of his voice and my throat goes dry. “Uh, I got some paint…for upstairs.”
“Cool. Leave the receipt on the counter and I’ll reimburse you.” The buzzing starts again before I can argue.
I frown. I came here to make sure he doesn’t mind the painting, not to ask him for money. That’s the point—if he won’t take my rent money, I at least owe it to him to improve the apartment.
I turn away from the counter. I’m almost to the door when I hear a long sigh behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I spot a young girl sitting in one of the chairs along the far wall. Her head is thrown back and she’s staring at the ceiling. A notebook is balanced on her skinny knees and a pink backpack sits on the floor between her feet. What the hell is a kid doing in a tattoo parlor?
