Chapter 8 Brynn
Chapter eight
Brynn
Knox walks out, stopping just short of slamming the door behind him.
Well. That was something.
I stare at the now-closed door, the silence behind it still buzzing with the ghost of his frustration. The nerve of him—storming over like he owns the place.
Okay, technically he does. Whatever.
He’ll just have to get over it, because I’m not going anywhere. Lease is signed. Boxes are moved in. Furniture’s arriving Monday. I’ve already mentally assigned my plants their new sunlit perches. Sorry, Coach Dalton. This tenant’s staying.
And no, it didn’t bother me that his hair was a mess in that aggravatingly hot, post-bedhead kind of way. Or that his T-shirt looked vacuum-sealed to his biceps. Or that his voice had that low, gravelly, barely-awake rumble that belongs in a romance audiobook and not real life.
Nope. Not even a little.
I blow out a breath and give my head a firm shake. Focus. I reach for a box on the living room floor—one of the heavier ones, based on the ominous clank inside—and lug it to the kitchen. Pots and pans. Great.
As I set it down, I stretch out my arms, shaking the tension from my hands.
Starting over wasn’t supposed to feel like emotional dodgeball with my ex-boyfriend/landlord/next-door-neighbor.
I signed up for quiet. Peace. A fresh start.
Not spontaneous memories and shirt-clad thirst traps storming across my lawn.
I grab my phone off the counter and hover my finger over the play button.
A petty part of me wants to crank the volume out of spite.
But I’m not heartless, or completely tone-deaf.
Maybe I overdid it this morning with the Whitney-Britney combo platter.
Still, a girl needs a little drama when she’s unpacking alone.
With a sigh, I lower the volume to a level that won’t summon the wrath of Knox Dalton again.
“This is me compromising,” I mutter. To the room. Or maybe to the wall we now share.
Then I hit play.
Britney’s voice fills the kitchen like a whisper instead of a war cry, and I start unwrapping coffee mugs. Not quite as satisfying, but I’ll live.
For now.
I break down the final box and add it to the Leaning Tower of Recycling by the front door. The place still feels half-empty—no couch, no coffee table, nothing on the walls—but it’s mine.
A blank slate. A tiny echoing box of freedom.
Sure, the folding chair I’ve been using as a table screams "college freshman on a budget," but that’s fine. I feel good. Settled. Almost.
The doorbell rings, loud and unexpected.
I crack the door open to find my mom and dad on the porch, loaded down like suburban sherpas. Grocery bags in Mom’s hands. Two air mattresses balanced across Dad’s arms.
“What are you two doing here?”
Mom strides in. “We brought groceries to stock your fridge,” she says, unloading bags onto the counter.
Dad ruffles my hair as he walks by. “And blow-up mattresses,” he adds proudly. “Thought we’d have ourselves a little sleepover.”
I blink. “A sleepover?”
“Well, your furniture won’t be here until tomorrow,” Mom says, already halfway through my barely-there kitchen. “So I thought—why not make it fun? I brought face masks!” She pulls two shiny foil packets from her purse like she’s performing a magic trick.
“Wow. The deluxe welcome package,” I deadpan.
She grins. “You're welcome.”
I smile, against my better judgment. “Thanks, Mom. That actually sounds kinda nice.”
I pause, then glance toward the wall I now share with a certain grumpy former quarterback. “Hey—actually, I’ve got a question.”
They both freeze. Mom goes a little too still. Dad suddenly finds the empty fridge fascinating.
“Why didn’t you tell me Knox built these?”
Mom shoots Dad a look. Busted. “We didn’t want to deter you from a great place,” she says, too casually.
Dad grabs a can of sparkling water. “And it’s not like you have to see him.”
I point to the wall. “Newsflash, he lives right there. I could probably hear him floss if I tried hard enough.”
Mom winces. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” I fold my arms. “Did it seriously not occur to you that this might be a little bit important?”
“You’d already signed the lease,” she defends, “and we didn’t think it would be a big deal.”
“You know he’s a big deal, Mom. You’ve literally read Facebook threads about him. There's, like, a full-blown local gossip saga archived under his name.”
She shrugs, still looking way too calm. “I just figured if it came up, you’d handle it. Besides, the kitchen has quartz counters. That’s worth a little emotional discomfort, right?”
Dad nearly chokes while taking a drink, trying not to laugh.
I narrow my eyes. “You two are lucky I don’t have a couch to dramatically throw myself on right now.”
Mom smiles sweetly. “Good thing we brought air mattresses.”