Chapter Twenty-Five
Brinley
The apartment is quiet after Cooper leaves.
I lock the door and stand there for a second, listening for any noise from him on the other side. All I heard was the sound of his footsteps hitting the stairs and his truck exhaust fading away as he drove down the alley.
Now I’m left with the low hum of the fridge and the heater kicking back on.
I shrug out of my jacket and hang it on the hook outside the bathroom door.
This place still smells like wood and fresh paint. Too new for someone like me who spent their life living in mobile homes with questionable odors and what was likely mold growing from beneath the sink. We rented one apartment for only a few months before we realized there was a snake infestation.
I’ve never been more terrified in my life.
My duffel bag is tossed on the floor by the couch.
I nudge it with my foot and glance toward the corner where my deflated air mattress sits.
The cheap sheets I bought from the store sit twisted from the last time I slept here with Cooper.
I bend down to curl them into a ball and toss them into the dirty laundry basket, not wanting to sleep there tonight with the faint smell of him around me.
It’s easier this way.
I’ve been back and forth so much lately between here and the barn. This is for the best.
I grab my backpack by the door and slide my arms through the straps. My car won’t be ready for a day or two. I’m not going to waste money on an Uber or bother anyone for a ride.
There’s a corner grocery store not far from here. It’s a short walk, one that I don’t mind taking.
The air is sharp enough to make my eyes water. I wrap my scarf around my neck and keep my chin down as I cut through the alley and around the block to Archer’s Foods.
I grab a small basket and slowly move down the aisle, checking prices as I add all the essentials to get me through the week. I stand in front of the meat counter longer than I should before deciding on the smallest pack of chicken.
It’ll stretch if I make it.
I snag a few frozen pizzas. They aren’t the best or the most healthy, and I pretend it’s not a splurge.
The cashier scans everything and reads off my total. I don’t even let the cost enter my mind before I swipe my card, shoving what I can that I don’t want to get smashed into my backpack. The rest I can carry in my reusable bag.
By the time I get back to the loft, my hands are cold, and my eyes are watering. I fumble with the keys as I push the door open and drop everything on the counter.
It’s starting to feel warmer in here now.
After I put the groceries away, I pick up the rest of the space, deciding to finally unpack my clothes and put them away in the dresser. I’ve stacked a few of my books on the windowsill, since there’s nowhere else to put them.
The air mattress is still there in the corner. I stare at it for a long minute.
It’ll be fine for a night or two, but it won’t work long-term.
I grab my laptop and settle on the couch, folding my legs beneath me. I’m thankful when the Wi-Fi connects without any issues. I open the browser and type “cheap mattress near me” into Google.
A few listings fill the page, along with some Marketplace posts. I click through a few, zooming in on corners and seams. I know that most people wouldn’t want to buy a used mattress, but I’m pretty sure that’s all I’ve ever owned growing up, and I’d say I’m doing just fine now.
I scroll through the options, comparing numbers and doing the math in my head to see what I can afford, knowing I’ll have another car bill coming soon. Who knows how much that will end up being.
After scrolling the selections, I land on one at a local discount furniture store that is going out of business. It comes with a simple black frame, and they’re throwing in free delivery if I order today, which feels like a win.
If I go with this one, I can probably grab a decent comforter set next time I’m at the store.
“Whatever,” I mutter to myself.
I add it to my cart before I can change my mind and check out quickly, not giving myself time for buyer’s remorse to kick in.
When the confirmation email hits my inbox, I let out a slow breath. I feel accomplished after tackling that one task.
I could probably knock a few more things off my to-do list, or I could open Netflix, now that my internet seems to be working.
Then the thought of missing Cooper enters my mind again, and I wonder what he’s doing. I don’t know what urges me to do it, but I pull out the TV tray and set up my computer. After plugging it in, I grab my controller and power on my game.
The menu loads right away. My eyes skim through my friend list without thinking until it lands on him.
My stomach dips before I can recover.
Cooper and his gamer tag don’t feel like the same person to me, even though I know they are now.
One stood in my doorway just hours ago, looking at me like he was trying to make sense of something he won’t tell me yet. The other feels like someone I don’t really know.
Or maybe I never knew either of them.
The first time I landed in the lobby with him, his friends were loud and annoying when they realized they were playing with a girl. I chose my gamer tag for that reason. I got sick of dealing with jerks who couldn’t handle losing to a girl.
Most of the time, I mute my mic when I’m joining random matches. It’s easier that way, and I’m not usually up for chatting anyway.
I send him a quick challenge invite. It takes a few seconds, and then my screen switches, pulling me into his lobby.
“CerealKilla,” he says over the mic.
The sound of his voice sends a shiver through me.
How had I not realized it was him before that day in the student center?
I don’t answer. Instead, I type.
Hey.
There’s a small pause.
“I haven’t seen you in a while.”
My chest aches, but I type back.
Been busy.
“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”
The map loads. We drop in without much else being said. We play the same way we always do, covering each other’s angles without thinking, and I fall into step with him like it’s second nature.
We’re halfway through when his voice comes through again.
“You good?”
I glance at my headset and debate whether to talk to him before I type my message.
Yeah. You?
“Yeah,” he answers. There’s a pause before he continues. “Just… a lot going on lately.”
I swallow and focus on keeping my eyes on the screen and my head in the game. We clear the next round.
“Feels like we haven’t played in forever, although I guess it’s probably been about a month now. Right?” he asks.
Yeah, it’s been a few weeks.
“Yeah.”
There’s a small laugh in his voice. I want to tell him to keep talking, that I want to hear him, but that’s not who we are to each other on here. I don’t want to risk him finding out it’s me either.
“Life gets in the way sometimes.”
That a good thing?
He seems to hesitate again. We push through another lane, and he takes out two guys quickly before he finally responds.
“I guess I would say it depends on the day.”
I shift in my seat and type out my reply without second-guessing it.
You happy, though?
Every second that ticks by feels more like minutes.
On my screen, I see him crouch behind a wall to seek cover, waiting to reload.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “For the most part, I am.”
Something in my chest loosens and tightens all at once.
We continue moving in the game.
“I’ve just been distracted,” he adds. “Trying to figure some stuff out.”
He pauses, and I wonder if he’s going to say more before he continues.
“There’s this girl,” he says, and I force myself not to freeze on the controller. “We’ve been… well, a little back-and-forth. Not in a bad way. I know how it probably sounds. Just… timing.”
I stare at the screen.
Timing sucks.
He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a chuckle.
“Yeah. It does.”
We clear another round.
“She thinks I’m pulling away,” he says after a second. “Which… she’s not wrong. Just not for the reasons she probably thinks. It’s not her. I just have stuff I need to handle, and I’m not great with words.”
My fingers hover over the keys.
Have you tried talking to her?
“I tried,” he says. “I don’t know if she believes me. Or if she trusts me.”
I swallow.
If she cares, she probably wants to trust you. Sometimes we just need space… and sometimes we just need to feel safe enough to let our guard down.
He doesn’t answer right away, and I start to question if maybe I’ve said too much.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That sounds like her.”
The next match loads. I keep my mic muted, and he keeps talking through his.
I sit there in the dim light of my loft, listening to his voice through the speakers, trying to pretend I’m not the girl he’s talking about.
And telling myself to give him space.
If it’s meant to be, it’ll work itself out.