Chapter 4
Jo-Leigh
It’s weird being in the house alone once Swag drives off. The silence settles heavy around me, like the walls are holding their breath. But the weirdness fades as I start to explore.
There are two bedrooms. The one he told me I could use, and another that looks like it’s been frozen in time.
The posters on the wall are faded from sun and age.
Bikini-clad models pinned in that typical teenage-boy style, the corners curling slightly.
There’s a bookshelf lined with model cars, each one carefully painted and assembled.
Someone built them with patience. With pride.
Above it all, on top of the shelf, sit dusty trophies.
A full lineup. Baseball. Basketball. Football. I guess Swag was an athlete?
I step closer, brushing my finger across one of the tarnished nameplates. The layer of dust leaves a faint smudge on my fingertip. Jackson Boseman. The name feels too formal, too clean, but something about it fits. I whisper it aloud, just to hear it in the room.
“Jackson.”
It sounds wrong. And right. If it is him, this room is a piece of a life he doesn’t talk about. A version of himself he probably buried a long time ago. I back out of the room quietly, like I’ve seen something I wasn’t supposed to.
I move to the kitchen, which is as bare as it gets.
An old fridge hums softly in the corner, but when I open it, it’s empty.
No condiments. No leftovers. Not even a carton of eggs.
There’s a stove, but no microwave. No dishwasher.
Just chipped counters and cabinets with worn brass handles that creak when I open them.
The bathroom’s next. A single one tucked in the hallway, with a yellow shower-tub combo.
Not the kind of yellow that comes from age or grime.
It’s the intentional kind. One of my foster families had a bathroom like this.
Mustard yellow and definitely from the 70s.
The tile on the floor matches. So does the toilet. And the sink.
Everything in here is yellow.
There’s a towel and washcloth hanging on the bar. Both are dingy white, like they’ve been washed a thousand times and forgotten just as many. Like maybe this house has been waiting for someone to need it.
It’s not much. But it’s warm. Mostly. And I’m dry. So I don’t complain.
Instead, I head to the bedroom Swag told me was mine for the night. I pull the spare blankets he gave me over the thin mattress, layering them until the bed looks soft and thick and cozy, even if the sheets don’t match.
I stand there for a long moment, just staring at it.
I can’t remember the last time I had a room I wasn’t paying for by the night. A place that didn’t ask for money, or an excuse, or a reason I was there.
Tiredness wraps around me fast, heavy and bone deep. I set my backpack on the floor beside the bed, double check the front door and windows, then slip back into the bedroom.
Everything’s locked up.
Safe.
I crawl under the blankets, pulling them all the way up to my chin. The bed creaks, but it doesn’t smell like mildew or cheap motel cleaner. Just cotton and old wood and time.
The rain starts just as I settle in, tapping gently against the metal roof. It’s soft. Rhythmic. The kind of sound that’s supposed to lull you to sleep.
And it does. But there’s a quiet ache underneath it all.
It’s calming. And kind of lonely. Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not cold or scared or being told to move along.
For the first time in a long time, no one’s yelling, no one’s touching, no one’s watching.
Just me. In a room with four walls and a real door.
And that’s somehow the loneliest part of all.
I wake up disoriented, blinking up at a ceiling I don’t recognize. Sunlight filters through the window, catching the dust dancing in the air.
Right. Swag’s place.
Yawning, I stretch under the weight of the blankets, then groan when I sit up. The rain is still coming down, a steady drizzle tapping against the metal roof. Cozy last night. Annoying this morning.
I check the time and my stomach drops. I overslept. I have thirty minutes to get to work and I’m almost an hour away.
I text Caroline quickly.
Caroline
Hey, I’m gonna be late. On my way.
I don’t make any excuses, and I know she’ll understand. She always does.
After I shove my things into my bag, I give the little bedroom one last glance and pull the door closed behind me. The house is still and quiet, like it doesn’t mind being left alone again.
As I drive back toward Paincourtville, each mile weighs heavier on me. The further I get from that house, the more the loneliness creeps back in. My chest feels hollow. And according to the radio, the rain’s not stopping anytime soon. Great. I’m going to have to figure out where to sleep tonight.
I pull into the diner’s parking lot just as my phone buzzes.
Swag
You alive?
A small smile pulls at my lips. I type back quickly.
I am. Left the house locked up when I left. Thank you again.
His reply is fast.
Heard it’s supposed to rain all week.
Yeah.
I’ll leave the key under the pot on the porch.
I blink.
What?
You can stay there.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Swag, that’s too much.
It’s not.
Don’t make me come looking for you.
The warmth spreads through me so fast, I almost forget the rain. I stare at the screen for a long moment, lips pressed together to keep from smiling too much.
Finally, I text him back.
Thanks.
Getting out of the car, I head inside, feeling lighter than I have in weeks.
The day rushes by in a blur, and before I know it, I’m back on the road, headed toward Swag’s house in Baton Rouge.
It still feels weird to think of it like that— Swag’s house —and even weirder that I have a reason to go back. But I’m off the next few days, and for once, I’m actually looking forward to it.
My stomach growls as I drive. Grocery shopping is at the top of my list, but first I want to check the kitchen.
I didn’t look through the lower cabinets last night.
Didn’t think to see if there were pots, pans, anything to cook with.
At the time, just having a bed felt like enough. Now, I want to make it feel like more.
When I get there, the rain’s still coming down.
I park as close to the porch as I can and dash to the steps, trying not to get drenched.
There’s a pink flowerpot sitting by the door that definitely wasn’t there before.
I snort under my breath. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen and possibly the most thoughtful.
Lifting the pot, I find a key with a tiny bumblebee keychain attached.
Okay, that’s kinda cute. I use it to unlock the door, the warmth of the key still clutched in my palm as I push the door open. And then I stop.
Everything’s changed.
The white sheets are gone. The furniture’s uncovered. Old but solid, clean, and lived-in. There’s even a small TV now, sitting on a rickety stand in the corner of the room like it’s always been there. A folded blanket rests on the arm of the couch.
I swallow hard and step inside, kicking off my shoes.
Moving toward the kitchen, I brace myself for more dust and cobwebs.
What I find instead makes me stop short.
The fridge hums softly and it’s full. Milk, eggs, cheese, cold cuts.
Bottled water, a six-pack of root beer, a carton of strawberries.
The kind of food that says someone expects you to be here, eating.
Existing. I open the freezer. There’s a tub of mint chocolate chip sitting on top of a frozen pizza.
I laugh under my breath, heart twisting.
Swag kept his word.
And then he did even more.
I close the fridge door gently, like I’m afraid the whole illusion might vanish if I touch it too hard.
The bathroom’s different, too. The dingy white towels are gone, replaced with brand new ones, still fluffy and untouched. They're pink. The exact same shade as the flowerpot. I blink, like maybe I’m seeing it wrong. But no. It’s deliberate.
There are toiletries lined up on the counter. A toothbrush still in the packaging. Shampoo. Conditioner. A razor. Lotion. Deodorant. My face burns as I spot the box tucked behind it all. Tampons.
I stare at it, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
“How long does he think I’m going to stay?” I whisper to the empty room.
At first, all I could feel was warmth. Gratitude. This giddy disbelief that someone would think ahead for me, think about what I might need. That someone would make space for me.
But then another thought creeps in.
What if he’s expecting something else in return? The joy in my chest folds in on itself, replaced by a heavy, familiar dread. I wrap my arms around myself and step back.
No one gives without taking.
No one.
But that doesn’t seem like him. So maybe he’s just being kind. Maybe he has a girlfriend, and this is just charity. Maybe this is some broken version of generosity I’m not used to. He’s older. More experienced. He probably pities me. I mean, it’s not like I’d be his type.
Whatever.
I tell myself that as I back out of the bathroom, trying to shake the weight settling in my gut. He’s just being nice. That’s all it is. Right?
I peek into his room, It’s still untouched and frozen in time.
I move down the hall to my room and find it’s changed.
The thin mattress is gone, replaced by one that looks like it might actually feel like sleep instead of survival.
There’s new bedding, pink again. The pillows are new.
The curtains, too. Like someone wanted me to stay.
A lump rises in my throat, thick and uninvited.
I reach for my phone, fingers shaking slightly as I type.
Swag
Do you have someone else coming to the house?
What? No. Why? Is someone there?
No.
I’m confused.
I swallow and type slower now, every letter deliberate.
Why is there all this new stuff if no one is coming?
It’s for you.