9. This Is Extremely Cliché #3
I snort. “I haven't inquired yet. Which is why I blew out my candle before coming over here.”
Jack looks at me.
Something in his expression softens.
Barely.
But it's there.
And for some reason, the subtle shift makes me squirm more than one of his glares ever has.
He looks away first.
“I'm going to change.”
“Probably a good idea.”
He glances down at the puddle beneath his feet. “I'll be back.”
Then he's gone before I can come up with a suitably sarcastic response.
I turn my attention to cleaning up the kitchen because it's easier than examining the strange shift in the atmosphere between us.
Dusty watches me the entire time.
“You're not helping,” I tell him.
His tail thumps once.
I carry the plates to the sink and do my best to ignore the rain pounding against the windows.
“The guest room's ready.”
I jump at Jack's voice and spin around.
He's changed into dry clothes, and I somehow didn't hear him come back into the kitchen.
“The guest room?” I repeat.
“I made the bed and put out some towels.”
I open my mouth to object to the hospitality, then close it again.
What am I supposed to say?
No, thank you. I'd rather return to my dark house and spend the night listening to my memories?
Apparently, at some point between repairing my porch, feeding me quesadillas, and nearly drowning while checking shutters that didn't need checking, Jack Wilder decided I'm spending the night.
Which, to be fair, I suppose I already knew.
You're not leaving.
Right.
“It has a door,” Jack adds.
The corner of my mouth lifts. “A door? How very thoughtful of you.”
His glare returns.
There he is.
“Do you want the room or not?”
“Yes.” I smile despite myself. “Thank you.”
Jack picks up one of the lanterns and gestures for me to follow.
“This way.”
I trail behind him down the hallway as he carries the lantern in front of us like we're taking part in some old-fashioned house tour neither of us asked for.
The guest room is simple.
Functional.
No frills.
There's a bed, a dresser, an extra blanket folded neatly at the foot, and a small lamp that is currently useless because electricity has apparently developed a personal grudge against me.
“The bathroom is down the hall. First door on the right.”
I nod and set my lantern on the dresser.
Now that I'm standing still, I'm suddenly aware of how tired I am.
Not just physically.
Emotionally.
Like my body has been carrying tension for months and has finally found somewhere to set part of it down.
I'm not sure how I feel about that place being Jack Wilder's house.
That thought alone will probably keep me awake.
“Jack?”
He pauses in the doorway. “Yeah?”
I hesitate.
Then force the words out.
“Thanks. For… not making this worse.”
His jaw tightens slightly, but he gives me a single nod.
“Get some sleep.”
Then he steps into the hallway and closes the door behind him.
I stare at the door for a moment before looking around the room again.
It smells faintly of laundry detergent and salt air.
Nothing in here belongs to my parents.
Nothing reminds me of Ben.
There are no memories waiting in the corners.
For the first time since I arrived in Tidehaven, I'm in a room that doesn't ask me to remember anything.
It's a relief.
Or it would be if not for the storm.
The wind hits the house in gusts strong enough to rattle the windows. Rain hammers against the roof, and every occasional creak from the hallway sounds far too much like footsteps in the dark.
I lie down anyway, not bothering to crawl beneath the covers. Instead, I pull the extra blanket from the foot of the bed over me and stare at the ceiling.
No glow-in-the-dark stars.
Disappointing.
They would've provided a decent distraction.
Instead, my mind goes exactly where I don't want it to.
Ben's last drive.
The rain.
The wet road.
The sudden loss of traction.
My brain does that cruel thing where it creates a thousand versions of a moment I wasn't there to witness and asks me to choose which one is true.
Was he driving too fast?
Did another car move into his lane?
Did the tires lose their grip all at once?
Did he have time to know what was happening?
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Stop.
I roll onto my side and pull the blanket tighter around me.
The rain keeps falling.
The wind keeps pushing against the house.
And my mind keeps returning to a road I never saw.
After what feels like twenty minutes—maybe thirty—I finally give up and sit.
“This isn't going to work,” I whisper, rubbing a hand over my face. “And I'm not going to lie here pretending to sleep.”
I grab the lantern and leave the room.
Maybe I'll have better luck on the couch. The living room is farther from the guest-room window, and at this point, I'll take any change of scenery my brain is willing to accept.
I follow the hallway toward the faint glow coming from the living room.
Then stop in the doorway.
Because Jack is sitting on the couch I was planning to claim.
He's leaning back, staring into the dim room like sleep isn't going particularly well for him either.
At the sound of my footsteps, he looks up.
Our eyes meet.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
Apparently, I'm not the only one awake.
I shift the lantern in my hand.
“So…” I say.
Jack waits.
“This is awkward.”