Chapter Eleven
Ripley
Iopen my front door and motion for Seth to enter ahead of me. His face has been blank since we left RED, and the only thing he’s said to me is a quiet thank you for letting him stay with me.
I won’t lie, I’m nervous. But nervous in an excited way.
I have no idea what to expect, and I suppose I should feel awkward having the man who rejected me in my space, but it’s just shy of painfully uncomfortable, and I like to live on the edge.
One of my favorite things is watching people navigate flustering situations.
Usually I’m just an onlooker and not a participant, but beggars and choosers and all that.
Seth stops in the entryway, and I squeeze in behind him, closing the door. Toeing off my shoes, I kick them toward the pile just to the right of the door, and he looks at it like it’s personally offended him.
“Follow me,” I say, brushing past him farther into my small home. “This is the living room,” I say lamely, tossing my backpack on the couch. “Through there is the kitchen and a half bath. The guest room is upstairs.”
His expression hasn’t changed. He’s looking around like he smells something awful—and okay, rude. I wasn’t exactly expecting company.
“Please fix your face.”
“Excuse me?” he says, his gaze shooting to me.
“I’m doing you a favor here,” I say. “The least you can do is not look disgusted. Not all of us can live in the lap of luxury.”
“Whoa, what?” He dares to look affronted.
“I know you’re used to Seattle high-rises and upscale hotels. This is nice,” I say, motioning around me, “by small town, South Carolina standards.”
As my words trail off, I take an actual look around.
And unfortunately, I have to admit it’s been a while since I’ve tidied up.
In my defense, the only visitor I’ve had recently has been arriving late at night and enjoying my company from the comfort of his head shoved into my mattress with the lights off the whole time.
“Okay, fine,” I concede. “It could be cleaner, but you can’t say your place is company-ready at any given moment.”
I meander around picking up random pieces of clothing from the couch and a few half empty water glasses from the side table. Seth is quiet, and when I finally look at him, my hands full, he’s looking at the floor, face slightly flushed and jaw clenched.
“What?”
He won’t meet my eyes, still focused on the floor by the edge of the couch, looking at something I can’t see. I make my way around to find out what’s caught his attention.
And then I perish a little inside.
Or at least I wish I could because right there, partially hidden under the couch, is an empty condom wrapper. Mortified—though as a grown adult, logically I know I have no reason to be—I run over and kick it the rest of the way under the couch like object permanence isn’t a thing.
“I’ll uh, get that later. Let me just put this stuff in the kitchen, and then I’ll show you your room.”
My voice is much too high, and my face flames as I rush into the kitchen to set the glasses next to the sink. Taking a breath, I hug my dirty clothes to my chest like armor and go back out to the living room. Without making eye contact, I ask, “Ready?”
Seth grips the handle to his bag and follows me upstairs, our feet on the steps the only sound in the whole house.
We trudge to the guest room, and I adjust the clothes in my arms to free a hand to shove open the door.
“This is the guest room.” With my feet planted at the threshold, I motion toward the space like I’m showcasing something more interesting than a plain bed, nightstand, and dresser in there.
Silence.
Seth takes a step inside, the wheels of his suitcase scraping against the old wooden floor. His head swivels around from one corner of the room to the other before he turns around and looks at me, his face neutral but still flushed.
My armpits are sweating, and my skin itches under his gaze. This was a bad idea. I won’t survive a month of this.
“Bathroom’s back there,” I say lamely, motioning down the hall to the room we passed on our way here not two minutes ago. The one I already pointed out just so I didn’t feel so suffocated. “Oh, and about the party. I know it probably sounds like your worst nightmare. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you,” he says, but it sounds a lot more like “fuck off.”
“Cool.” I nod, tearing my eyes away from his and looking anywhere but at his perfect face. “I’ll uhh… I’ll just be in my room.” I point a thumb behind me to the half-open door where my clothes litter the floor and my unmade bed calls out to me to run and hide under its covers.
There’s only more silence as the door swings shut in my face.
I have contemplated murder no less than three hundred and twenty-eight times over the past four days. I’ve come up with just as many alibis and methods for getting rid of his body.
“He fell on my fork all four times. Yes, with his neck. I swear it, officer.”
Seth nudges the dish soap farther to the right side of the sink before moving to the stove.
I fucking knew it! He thinks I haven’t noticed he’s been moving it from the left of the sink—where I like it—to the other. And for a while, I will admit, I did think I was losing my mind a little bit. Why does he think he knows best?
I’m calculating how much I have in my savings account and wondering if it would be enough to cover a gun-for-hire as I listen to him mumble, asking himself if it’s really so hard to put dirty clothes in a hamper as he makes his nasty-ass egg white omelet.
“If you have something to say, just fucking say it,” I grit out, my hands clutching my iced coffee tighter; the few sips I’ve taken haven’t kicked in yet.
Cohabiting with Seth has been less than an easy transition, to put it mildly.
I’ve learned a lot about us in the few days since he’s been staying with me.
For example, I’ve learned he needs everything to be spotless at all times like some kind of freak.
As if living in a museum-like environment is normal.
Conversely, I’ve also learned his desire for everything to be spotless makes me want to make an even bigger mess.
Who knew I was such a brat?
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” The clipped words and the clenched jaw they’re forced through really sell the sentiment.
“Spit it out.”
“Okay,” he says, whirling around to face me. “Why are you such a slob?”
“Wow, thank you. You’re so kind,” I deadpan.
He ignores me and plows on, “Would it kill you to put your wet towel and dirty clothes in the hamper and not next to it? I know it’s not my place, but we’re sharing a bathroom, and I’d appreciate not having to shove clothes aside when I’m trying to step into the shower.”
His words are more polite than I deserve, honestly. I’m sure at this point he’s just about ready to rip my head off. I haven’t been making this easy for him. Jury’s still out if I’m consciously or subconsciously making the situation worse.
But fuck it, in for a penny, in for a pound.
I stand and move over to the sink, running the water. I make a show of moving the dish soap back.
“It’s my house, Seth,” I hiss out his name at the end. “This is how I live.”
“And why is nothing in the same place twice?” he says, still ignoring me.
It seems I’ve started something I may not be ready for as he barrels forward.
“I look for the remote for at least fifteen minutes each evening because it ends up in a different part of the living room every night. I’m not even going to get started on your spice rack.
Everything should have a home! Like this,” he picks up my whisk, “where does this live? Because yesterday I found it in this drawer,” he says pointing to his right.
“And the day before it was in this one.” He points to his left.
“And today, for no fathomable reason whatsoever, it was up here.” He opens one of the upper cabinets and points to a spot between a couple of plates.
He’s looking at me like he expects an actual answer.
How do I tell him I don’t actually care where the whisk “lives?” I use it maybe twice a year.
If I can’t find it, I’ll just run out to the dollar store and pick up a new one.
Also not sure why he’d need it three times in four days, just use a fork like a normal person.
Knowing it’ll piss him off—and maybe make the pretty shade of red currently staining his cheeks just a tiny bit deeper—I smirk and say, “Things in my house don’t have a ‘home.’” I put air quotes around the last word. “It’s more like… they’re in the ‘neighborhood.’”
My words have the exact effect I wanted. His eyes blaze with fury, and his cheeks pinken. He might actually lose it on me today, and I’m so giddy I can barely sit still.
His expression has been an artificial, blank mask of his actual face ever since the condom incident, as I’ve so lovingly coined it—which reminds me, I still need to dig the infamous wrapper out from under the couch.
I won’t lie, I’m a little afraid of what else awaits me down there; I can’t pinpoint the last time I checked.
With the exception of this morning, he’s been overly polite, and I absolutely hate it.
He forgets I know him. We’ve spent years getting to know each other, so I know he’s a bit of an asshole, even when he’s not trying to be.
It’s exactly why whenever he said anything positive when I made him feel good or if he liked what he saw when we were naked meant so much more than someone else saying it.
His falsity is driving me crazy, which in turn is making me go out of my way to drive him insane. Seeing a little bit of the man I know bubble up under the mask is a weird but very real turn on.
Unfortunately, just as quickly as it lifted, the veil is back down, and his face is neutral again. “You’re right. I’m sorry. This is your house, I shouldn’t be telling you how to live in your own home,” he says robotically and turns back to his eggs.
Ugh, I hope they’re burned.
Watching him close up again makes me feel ragey, and I’m two seconds from stomping my foot and throwing my coffee across the room like a toddler.
Reminding myself I’m an adult, I opt for biting words instead.
“You’re a temporary guest. I’m not sure why any of this matters to you.
Just a few more weeks and you can go back to Seattle and forget all about me again.
” And then to really twist the knife, I add, “Unless, of course, you need to get off late at night, then yeah, dust off my number and shoot me a text. You’re great at hiding behind a screen. ”
There’s a crack in the armor he holds onto so tightly, and just for a second, I see a bit of remorse on his face before he schools it again.
Picking up my almost full coffee cup, I get up and leave without another word, something annoying like guilt sloshing in my stomach with each step.