The Art of Duffel Digging
Griff
In spite of the open windows, the boathouse still smelled like the mutant love-child of mustiness and dead fish.
Ignoring the funk, I kicked the door shut with my heel and dropped the garbage bag full of bedding just inside. I'd been using it for a laundry bag, but that didn't change the fact that it was plastic, black, and made me look like I was trying to rob Christmas.
Plus, I still didn't have a bike lock. Call me cynical, but I wasn't that trusting, especially with wheels that weren't my own.
Now, back in the boathouse of horrors, I debated whether to sleep on the bare biohazard mattress or dig through the duffel and pray it contained something I could substitute for sheets. A beach towel. A blanket. Hell, I'd take a novelty poncho at this point.
Poncho or not, I wasn't putting the old sheets back on the bed – not without washing them first. And the laundry, it seemed, would have to wait until tomorrow.
My only hope was the duffel, which I still hadn't fully explored, probably because I could only imagine what kind of crap Ryder had packed on my behalf.
So far, I'd dug only deep enough to find the toiletries and the clothes I was wearing now, along with a monogrammed bath towel and the flashlight that had saved my ass last night after flipping off the overhead light.
But the duffel was big, which meant that a good, deep look was long overdue. Ideally, I would dump it all out, check the goods, and shove most of it back in.
The plan had only one hitch. There wasn't a single trustworthy surface in the shithole I was calling home.
The floorboards were grimy and warped. The mattress was a hard no. And the table looked like it would collapse under the weight of anything heavier than lunch – a damn shame, considering that its surface was actually clean.
I'd cleaned the table myself, using plenty of elbow grease and wipes that I'd purchased from the lone grocery store on Main Street. Those wipes, along with a single bag of potato chips, had nearly busted my daily food budget, but hey, a guy had to do what a guy had to do.
And me? I'd had to create at least one space where I could set down a sandwich without the table eating it first.
In the end, I kept the duffel in the corner where I'd originally dropped it and opened it wide to check out the goods. I knelt beside it and started digging.
I found socks, tees, and a six-pack of boxer briefs, all in the right size. Digging deeper, I found a paperback I'd actually wanted to read, a phone charger, two bottles of water, a second bath towel, a wash cloth, an old baseball cap, and holy hell – was that my favorite hoodie?
Not bad.
I kept digging and felt my fingers close on something hard. I yanked it out and almost laughed out loud. It was a new bike lock, still in the package.
Call me impressed. Turns out, Ryder had done his homework.
I also found a circular tin and popped the lid to find a scented candle – the girly kind, pink and floral.
No lighter.
Still, I couldn't help but smile. Asshole. My smile widened when I found a thin, but oversized beach towel emblazoned with palm trees and the words, Island Life . Between this and the bonus bath towel, things were finally looking up.
As far as packing, Ryder had done a decent job. Still, I had to give him some grief. I pulled out my cell and sent him a text. What, no lighter?
He replied with a question mark.
I texted back, " The duffel. One candle. No lighter." On impulse, I added, "Asshole."
His reply came a few moments later. " I'll tell her you said so."
Her? I frowned in confusion before sending another text of my own. " Who?"
He replied, "The bag packer."
I was still trying to make sense of it when my phone buzzed with a followup. "What, you thought I packed it?"
Now I was really confused. "You didn't?"
This time, his response was instant . "LOL."
I still didn't get it. "WTF does that mean?"
"It wasn't me. It was your housekeeper."
Marianne? I hadn't seen her. But of course, it's not like she came in every day. And she never came in at night. I replied with a single word. "Bull."
"No bull. Had to pay her extra to come in after hours."
I was still digesting this when my phone buzzed again. "You owe me."
Not the way I saw it. "How do you figure?"
"I had two choices. The housekeeper or…"
It was several beats before he sent another text to complete the thought. "Your mom."
I almost dropped the phone. What the fuck? My mom didn't even live in the city. She lived an hour out. But location aside, the last thing I wanted was Mom packing my bags. Don't get me wrong. I loved her like crazy, but I was about twenty years too old to have a parent picking out my clothes.
And Ryder wasn't done texting. "You're welcome."
I replied with a finger emoji – you know the one. And then, I set the phone aside and shook out the beach towel. Length-wise, it was still nearly a foot shy, but I was in no position to be picky.
I spread it out on the mattress and added the second bath towel for good measure. Then I yanked on my hoodie and lay back on the bed.
Tomorrow, I would need to wash the bedding and the towels, plus the hoodie, but the way I saw it, it was a fair trade for a decent night's sleep.
Not fully decent, of course.
The mattress was still lumpier than a sack of doorknobs.
But at least I'd have a layer between me and the biohazard.
So, I'd be able to get some sleep.
Probably.
And for breakfast tomorrow?
You guessed it. Pastries.
With plenty of cranberries.
I let out a sigh. Only twenty-nine more days to go.