Chapter Twelve
Seth
It’s been five days. The longer I’m here, the closer I am to a mental breakdown.
There’s zero structure to this man’s life.
Zero. Nothing has a home. His things are strewn all over the place.
There’s no rhyme or reason. I swear, one day he was looking for his shoes and one of them was by the front door, the other was on an entirely different floor, peeking out from under the bed. How does that even happen?
On the first day, he made a remark about how my place probably wasn’t company-ready either.
I wanted to scream there’s never a moment my apartment isn’t ready for visitors.
I just don’t get many—by choice. But I held my tongue, knowing it would only add fuel to the fire I didn’t have the energy to deal with.
Regardless, I am perfectly capable of understanding a little mess and feeling unprepared to house a guest. This is just so far beyond that.
I’ve desperately tried to erase the image of the condom wrapper on the floor from my mind.
The pit of rage it opened isn’t something I’m mentally equipped to examine, not while I’m stuck in a house with him.
Messiness aside, it brought the reality of our “break-up” to the forefront.
I’d been in denial about him possibly moving on since then, but the ripped open foil packet all but obliterated my delusions.
I know we were never together and obviously never exclusive, but it still feels like a betrayal. It’s an unfair feeling, I’m aware, but jealousy is toxic and almost impossible to banish.
Luckily, this is a temporary situation for me. Something Ripley had no issue pointing out to me during one of our squabbles. I just never predicted it as one I’d ever find myself in.
It’s as if he enjoys getting under my skin though.
It wouldn’t surprise me if he does. Despite feeling like a fish out of water in his space, I know Ripley.
All these years, I may have told myself it was just sex, but it was always more.
He’s told me details of his life, things he claims no one else knows.
Though now I’m wondering if he was being honest.
As soon as I finish brushing my teeth, I grab a shirt and pull it over my head. Trying to make as little noise as possible, I descend the stairs and head to the kitchen to make my protein shake.
With the help of the moonlight shining in through the window, I notice it looks… cleaner? No, that can’t be right. There should be blankets in disarray in the living room, empty glasses left on the end tables, dishes piling up in the sink, and shoes where they don’t belong.
It looks… dare I say, tidy? A word I never thought I’d use for the space Ripley calls home.
Last night, I retired to my room earlier than usual. I was tired of bickering with him and then getting turned on by the fighting, which made no fucking sense and left me confused. I wanted to throttle the man across the room one second and pin him against the wall the next.
Was this what he did with his free time last night? A wave of emotion crashes over me at the idea of him making his house more comfortable for my sake, and I’m not sure what to do with it.
Wanting to get a better look, I search the living room wall for the light switch and flick it on.
As my eyes adjust, I realize what he’s done is more of an attempt to clean than actually cleaning.
He wiped down the coffee table but didn’t vacuum the floor.
Things seem to be in places that almost make sense for once though. And the old gym sock smell is gone.
I know I seem like an ass, but I can’t help feeling out of my element when I can’t find anything.
Not having the simple sense of control that comes with knowing where things are stirs a vulnerability in me I’d rather not examine.
Him making the conscious effort to change his ways even a little for me means more than he’ll ever know.
This feels like a step in the right direction toward… something for us.
And somehow, seeing him try but not fully succeed is even more endearing than perfection.
Looking over my shoulder into the kitchen, I realize the sink is also empty of dishes.
I walk over, wanting—no, needing—to see what else he’s done.
Once I round the corner, I notice the counters are, again, mostly clean.
The ketchup bottle is still out instead of in the fridge where it belongs, but it’s at least pushed away from the edge and the top is closed.
Random spices surround the condiment instead of being scattered all over the kitchen.
My eyes land on a coffee machine that wasn’t there yesterday with a note beside it, a silver key covering the scrawled writing. I pick up the key, the weight of what it might be settling in the bottom of my stomach, then grab the note to read it.
I know how cranky you get without your morning coffee and can’t drink it past 7 a.m. I also know Grayce (the only decent coffee in town, let’s be real) doesn’t open until 7 most days.
Because of this, I graciously found my old coffee pot for you to use.
I can’t promise it’ll be good, but something is better than nothing, right?
PS: I also figured you need a key, so I had a spare made.
—East
My gaze lands on the key in my hand, the key he made just for me. Does it mean something? It would if I gave a key to my home to someone; I’ve literally denied Iris one multiple times. This is Ripley though, so maybe it means nothing. Fuck, all I ever do is overthink when it comes to him.
Unable to stop myself, I read the note three more times before folding it up and stashing it in my pocket along with the key.
For some reason, him signing it as East almost means more than the note itself.
I know it’s irrational. Ripley is East, but I can’t pretend it wasn’t easier when we were just East and West. Before the mystery shattered.
I’m awestruck he did something so nice for me after all the arguing we’ve done and how difficult I’ve been. He went so far as to program it so the drip is done by 6:15 a.m., just as I would be getting out of the shower. He’s been paying attention, apparently.
Then it hits me—I’ve been waking him up. I didn’t think he could hear me from all the way upstairs, and being someone who lives alone, I didn’t really think about the noise I’m making either.
Before I beat myself up about it too much, I look at the clock on the microwave.
It’s 4:45 a.m., and I’m already five minutes behind schedule.
Shoving down all these new feelings to be examined at a later time, I grab my shaker bottle and protein powder, going through the motions of making the shake.
I didn’t consider how fucking loud this thing is.
I live alone, so it’s never crossed my mind, but now, I cringe at the sound of the metal blender ball ricocheting off the sides of the plastic.
Once it seems mixed enough or I can’t take the stress of how much noise I’m making—whichever comes first—I take my first gulp, preparing myself for my stretches.
It may seem weird to others, but I stretch before putting my shoes on. The thought of wearing shoes in the house churns my stomach, especially in someone else’s home.
It kills me, but I cut my stretching and preworkout short to make up for the time lost. Finishing off my protein shake, I bring it into the kitchen, rinse out the cup, and leave it in the sink to wash when I get back.
Turning the light off, I make my way to the front door to grab my shoes, patting my shorts to make sure Ripley’s spare key is in my pocket. I realize this is a small town, and things are different here, but I’ve hated leaving the door open, especially with someone sleeping inside.
As soon as the fresh air hits my cheeks, a rush shoots down my spine. No matter what, I always feel better when I go for my morning run. It, along with the shower afterwards, sets the tone for the whole day.
One thing I can confidently say about Indigo Hill, the town is gorgeous.
It strikes me every morning as the foliage comes back to life after the winter months.
Cherry blossoms are in full bloom, and the sun glints off the lake; the weather is beautiful.
Seattle is still in the low 40s this time of the year, so the comfortable fifty-three is a nice change.
Against my will, running always reminds me of Thea.
It was the one thing we had in common—aside from being infatuated with the same man back then, not that she knew.
Running in her hometown has me wishing I’d bump into her just so we can have some kind of common ground again.
Coming to my senses, I realize how terrible it would actually be if I did because we’d end up in some kind of argument.
She’s been trying—what I assume is her best—to stay in my good graces. A part of me wants her to treat me the way I deserve to be treated considering our past. The other part of me is glad I don’t have to rehash it with her. I know it’s best for Cary if we get along, which is why I’m also trying.
I have a list of regrets, but the way I treated Thea when she lived in Seattle is probably at the top.
It was more than snarky remarks, I went as far as attempting to talk Cary out of proposing to her the first time.
I’m hoping to take that particular mistake to my grave, though it’s possible he’s already told her.
I wouldn’t blame him if he did, honestly.
I was a shit friend back then, more concerned with my own feelings than being happy for him. I may not be the reason they broke up back then, but I didn’t help the situation either.
As my feet hit the pavement, thoughts of Thea and Cary drift away, and my mind wanders to Ripley again. Do the cleaning and the coffee mean something? Or are they just a peace offering? I wish I could text him and ask. Before, I wouldn’t have hesitated, but things are so off with us now.