Chapter 9 Laundry
Laundry
Gemiah
“Itake it they hired you?” Josha doesn’t look at me as I climb back into the truck. Probably because of Brandi’s “boyfriend” comment, which has me unreasonably delighted.
I spent half the interview—which consisted of taking off my clothes to show that I do, in fact, have both the balls and the goods and convincing the shift manager that the bruises aren’t as bad as they look—turning the word over in my head to examine it from every angle before concluding that it’s my new life’s mission to call him that at every opportunity.
He’ll come around eventually.
“I’ve got the shift tomorrow night, yeah,” I say. “It’s not really ‘hiring.’ They don’t put me on payroll or anything. I’m an independent contractor—they let me pay the house fee to show up, and then it’s on me to make it worth my time.”
“And this is what you’ve been doing for money?” His disapproval sparks a nerve.
“Why not? Is virgin Rocket getting puritanical on me?” I guess it was too much to hope he’d be turned on, or maybe a little jealous. “Besides, it’s the one thing I’m qualified for that pays good cash, isn’t illegal, and doesn’t require me to sign anything or stay in one place for too long.”
“God forbid you actually commit to anything.”
“Hey, at least I’m using my skills. Think Shilo would be proud?”
He knows me too well for me to sell the sarcasm, and he doesn’t pull his punches.
“I think she’d be happy to know you’re alive.”
“What have you told them?” I ask.
“About you? Nothing yet.”
Am I relieved or disappointed?
“I don’t want to get their hopes up,” he continues.
Ah. Crippling shame it is. At least I’m comfortable here. “Still think I’m gonna change my mind?”
“Are you?”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.” Again.
He laughs, so bitter he could be a stranger. “Right. Why don’t you call them now, then? You can use my phone.”
Of course he has to call my bluff.
Do I want to talk to my parents? Eventually. Am I planning to freak out and run again? Not exactly. But for two years, my insistent idea of “home” has been completely wrapped up in him. My brain never really ventured past the Josha of it all.
At least that’s what I tell myself. Nothing to do with unpacking the labyrinthine layers of soft betrayal and unmet expectations that come with my role as Gem the son.
Let’s tackle one level of denial at a time, shall we?
“Honestly?” I confess, “I was kind of hoping I could stay with you for a little while. Maybe take the long way up the coast.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Well, I was, but delusion is the kissing cousin of denial, so I think I can be forgiven.
“Got it. No side trips, no sleepovers, and no forgiveness.”
“How about no talking?”
“Can we at least stop for some decent Tic Tacs? You know I can’t stand the spicy ones.”
I’m hoping he’ll remember, that he’ll tease me like he used to—“Mint isn’t spicy, Quill, it’s refreshing. You’re such a wimp.”—but he doesn’t take the bait, and he doesn’t stop for orange Tic Tacs, and I keep my mouth shut for the rest of the drive.
The ride to Diana’s condo takes us out of the suburbs and through the dusty fields of the San Joaquin Valley—forty-five minutes of sandy scrub and oil fields, broken occasionally by the palm tree–lined streets and Spanish tiles of some tiny town.
Taft itself has the vaguely bleached-out vibe of a waitress at the end of her shift, weariness peeking through the cracks in the family-friendly facade.
By reflex, I clock the local bar as we pass down the main drag, wondering idly what kind of trouble it offers.
Nope. I’m done with that shit. No chasing demons when I’m finally giving myself the chance to live without them. Assuming I ever convince Josha to get on board.
Besides, tomorrow night will be rough enough without pushing my luck in another fight. At least I was able to score some Vicodin back at the club. The manager took one look at my busted face and my hunched posture and unveiled a veritable pharmacy before signing off on my shift.
Josha’s mom is at work, but he lets us into the ground-floor duplex apartment with a key from under the doormat and gives me a perfunctory tour. It’s a basic two-bedroom with colorless carpet and thrift-store furnishings, but it has a stackable washer-dryer unit that has me instantly salivating.
I toss the contents of my bags into the front-loader while Josha pokes around in the fridge.
“What do you want for dinner?” he asks, and I pretend not to be checking out his ass.
“I’m easy.”
“Shocker.” He rolls his eyes, turning to face me and spoiling my view.
Although…he’s pretty droolworthy from the front, too, shirt pulled taut across his chest and corded forearms crossed below his rolled-up sleeves.
How in the hell did I convince myself I wasn’t obsessed with him all those years?
And more importantly, did he have to wait until he despised me to get so fucking built?
His lips twitch minutely as I clutch at my chest in mock surprise.
“Is that…actual humor I detect, Rocket?”
“It’s called sarcasm.”
“I don’t know. You sound almost fond. Could I possibly be thawing your icy heart with my irresistible charms?”
“I built up an immunity to your charms a long time ago.”
Liar. In fact—
“Liar.”
“Don’t push your luck, Farrel. Now, do you want me to feed you or not?”
Holy fucking swoon. It’s like he doesn’t even want me to back off.
My head swims with the memories of a hundred casual meals—cross-legged on his bed, eating chili tots straight from the baking sheet; thigh-to-thigh on the steps of the Airstream, with thick sourdough sandwiches on paper plates; side by side in the hammock, while hot dogs charred from the camp stove drip mustard on our shirts—each one a gift from his thoughtful, brilliant hands.
“Please,” I say, a little huskier than warranted by the offer.
He turns back to the fridge with a sigh. “There’s not a lot to work with here. We’re gonna need a grocery run to make it through the weekend.”
“Like I said—”
“You’re easy. Yeah, yeah, I know.”
It’s one of his superpowers, conjuring meals from empty cupboards and a bare fridge.
He sets me to work peeling a couple of wilted carrots and a potato that’s halfway to sprouting its own siblings while he dices onions and celery and defrosts a freezer-burned package of chicken thighs in the microwave.
After some wizardry with olive oil, spices, and a can of V8, there’s a pot of soup filling the kitchen with savory steam, and my Josha-starved brain has moved from “boyfriend” to “husband.”
Or that might be the Vicodin.
Diana shows up while the pot is simmering, slender in her lavender scrubs and looking somehow younger than I remember—like the loss of her deadbeat husband peeled away years of exhaustion.
It’s also possible she’s had Botox, because her face shows no reaction when she finds me in the kitchen with her son.
“Gemiah.”
“Hello, Diana.” I summon my most winning smile. “Thanks for letting me crash for a couple of nights.”
“Hi, Mom.” Josha greets her with a gentle kiss on the cheek. “I made some soup, if you’re hungry.”
“I’m going to take a bath,” she says, absently wiping away the ghost of his kiss and causing a low boil of anger to bubble in my chest. “I’m meeting Steven at seven for dinner and a drink.”
“You’ve got a new beau?” I ask, not bothering to mask my snark. I’ve never known how to behave around this cold, faded woman, and if she’s going to dismiss her son like a vaguely irritating afterthought, I’m not about to start trying now.
“A beau?” She frowns at Josha. “Is that a new gay word, or is he calling me old-fashioned?”
“Jesus, Mom. Neither. He’s trying to make conversation.” He shoots me a sidelong look. “He doesn’t realize he sucks at it.”
“Gee thanks, Rocket.”
His exasperation is adorable.
“I’m gonna go switch my laundry now,” I say, pushing back from the table. “Have fun on your date, Diana.”
“Sorry there weren’t any noodles,” Josha says, dropping a package of Saltines next to the bowl of chicken soup in front of me. “I would’ve made biscuits, but she’s out of butter.”
“This is incredible,” I assure him. “I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal.”
He pauses halfway into his chair, muscles in his jaw twitching as his need to stay pissed at me stumbles over his innate compassion.
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I murmur, crumbling a few crackers into the bowl.
The first bite goes down in an explosion of nostalgia, the flavor of harbor in the storm of my manic youth. I catch his eyes on my throat as I swallow and can’t resist dragging my tongue over my bottom lip. “Mmm. Delicious.”
“I’m going to eat in front of the TV.” He stands abruptly, grabbing his own bowl and another sleeve of Saltines. It’s not exactly an invitation, but he doesn’t stop me when I follow him into the living room and steal glances at his profile while I fill my stomach with warm memory and hope.
Halfway through the second episode of the new Daredevil, Diana returns and retreats into one of the bedrooms with a faint “Goodnight, boys.”
“She hasn’t changed much,” I observe. Josha grunts and doesn’t look away from the man on the screen—who is way too old for him and not nearly as hot as he was in the original Netflix version.
I finish the show in silence, thinking about superheroes and second chances and what it means that I thought Charlie Cox was hot when I was in eleventh grade.
Later, I clean the kitchen while he makes up the couch with pillows and blankets from a hall closet.
“It’s not a pullout.” He shapes the words like an apology, but his face is a little too smug to be sorry.
“Are you really gonna make me sleep on that lumpy thing with a busted rib when I need my beauty sleep to secure our future fortune?”
“Bruised rib,” he corrects. “You’ll survive.”
“I think what you mean is, I don’t need sleep to be beautiful.” This time, I’m not imagining his hidden smile.
“Goodnight, Farrel.”
After pulling on a pair of threadbare sweats, warm from the dryer, I fold the rest of my laundry—which takes about three minutes.
I could really use some more clothes—and slip between the blankets on the couch.
I was right about the lumps. I also haven’t gone to bed before 2 a.m. since high school, and it’s barely eleven o’clock.
Even with the dregs of the Vicodin coasting through my system, sleep is a long way off.
I should be drifting on a nice little opiate high, but instead, my brain is fixated on the closed door at the end of the hall.
Or rather, the man behind that door. Does he still sleep in those drawstring pants?
Pale green like his infernal Tic Tacs and worn to almost transparency by constant use.
I always teased him for wearing the same pair, though he swore up and down he had more than one.
The image that haunts me now is the way the fabric hung from his narrow hips and the play of his glutes through the cotton.
My memories are a minefield—a million surface ripples teasing at the slumbering monster beneath.
But the leviathan is wide awake now, and he’s fucking hungry.
Fuck this.
Heart hammering in my throat, I tiptoe down the hallway and crack open the door.
Cool light from the halogen streetlamp sifts anemone shadows across his dreaming form—one knee hitched up and his back hugging the wall like a changeling from the eldritch past. In sleep, his features are softened, all the angles of his righteous anger blunted and blurred.
I pad across the carpet and slip between the covers, braced to weather the fury of his waking, but he barely stirs.
One hour, and I’ll go back to the couch. Trade this risky comfort for another pill.
Heat seeps from his skin to fill the space between us, and the familiar rhythm of his breathing lulls my lawless mind to rest.