Chapter 7 #3
She rolls her eyes. “Well congrats, you graduated to vegetables and carbs. Eat up, Crash. You look like you haven’t had anything warm in days.”
She’s right.
And goddammit—this broccoli pasta?
Tastes like home.
We eat side by side, plates balanced on the tiny kitchen island like we’re pretending it’s a full dining table.
It’s not, but I don’t give a shit. I’m stuffing my face like a goddamn maniac.
It’s hot, there’s garlic, there’s cheese—actual cheese, not the weird powder shit from vending machines—and I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.
Carol eats slower, more measured, like someone who’s learned to savor small things because she doesn’t always get them. Me? I’m inhaling this pasta like I might wake up tomorrow and it’ll all be gone—her, the apartment, the warmth, the fucking broccoli.
After a while, she leans her elbow on the counter and glances at me, fork twirling lazily.
“Have you remembered anything?” she asks, voice low, casual, but I know that tone. That quiet just in case hope laced under the sarcasm.
I swallow hard and shake my head.
No.
Still nothing.
No flashes, no names, no tragic backstory. Just blank space and a pounding sense of not knowing who the fuck I am.
She watches me a second, then nods, like she expected it. Not disappointed. Not surprised. Just… Carol. Calm in a way that makes you want to trust her with your worst shit.
“Okay,” she says, dragging the last bit of pasta through the sauce. “Then fuck it. We’re not pushing it tonight.”
I glance at her.
“Let’s give you some days to rest,” she continues, like it’s obvious. “Sleep properly. Shower. Eat shit that doesn’t come out of a gas station or a wrapper with a warning label.”
She looks at me again, sharp eyes soft for once. “Give your brain something to think about that’s not ‘Am I gonna freeze to death’ or ‘Will someone steal my shoes while I sleep.’”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. It comes out shaky, pathetic.
She nudges my knee with hers. “We’ll deal with the rest later, Crash. One fucking thing at a time.”
Goddamn.
This woman.
She’s half angel, half chainsaw.
And right now, she’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
“Thanks,” I mutter, and I mean it more than anything I’ve said since I woke up in that hospital bed.
“Don’t get emotional,” she says, already scraping her plate. “You’ll make it weird.”
I smile—can’t help it. It’s small, maybe crooked, but it’s real. The kind of smile that only comes after two full plates of hot food, a warm room, and someone giving half a damn whether you live or die.
We keep eating, no pressure, no forced conversation. She refills my plate without a word like it’s muscle memory. Like feeding strays is just part of her nightly routine now. I don’t argue. I’m too full and too fucking content to question anything.
Eventually, the plates are scraped clean and the weight of the day starts settling into my bones. It’s sleep time. My body’s dragging me down like it’s about to collapse whether I like it or not.
So I head toward the loveseat.
Because, yeah—there’s only one bed, and it’s hers. The loveseat probably hasn’t fit a human man since the Clinton administration. I’ll have to fold in half like a dying spider to even try to lie down. But it’s warm. It’s safe. It’s not a fucking sidewalk behind a Dunkin’ Donuts, and that’s enough.
I start gathering the extra pillow she tossed on it earlier, and I’m about to settle into my pathetic little cocoon when I hear her voice from the bed.
“Crash.”
I look up.
She’s standing by her mattress, already in that oversized shirt again, hair a messy golden halo, one leg tucked under her like she’s trying to get comfortable.
She jerks her chin toward the bed. “C’mon. You take the right side. I sleep on the side that’s against the window.”
I blink, confused. “Wait, what?”
“You heard me.”
“I—I’m fine here,” I stammer. “I don’t wanna—shit, I’m not trying to cross a line or—”
“Jesus,” she cuts in, rubbing a hand down her face, “You’re not gonna fuck me in your sleep, Crash. Calm down.”
I choke on nothing. “That’s not—what the fuck—Carol.”
She rolls her eyes. “Look, the loveseat’s gonna fold you in half like a lawn chair, and I’m not calling 911 because you tried to sleep like a pretzel. My bed’s big enough. I don’t care. Just don’t snore or steal the blanket, and we’ll survive the night.”
I hesitate. “You sure?”
She climbs into bed and throws the blanket over herself like she’s done arguing. “If I wasn’t, I’d be pushing your lanky ass out the window.”
Right.
Fuck it.
I walk over, heart pounding in my ears like this is somehow more intimate than showering in her soap and eating her leftovers. I ease onto the mattress slowly, careful not to take up too much space. The sheets are warm. The pillow smells like her. I try not to think about it too hard.
She doesn’t look at me, just pulls the blanket up to her chin.
“Sleep, Crash.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, sinking back. “Goodnight, Carol.”
“Goodnight,” she says.
Then, after a beat—
“If you fart in your sleep, I will suffocate you with a pillow.”
“Duly noted.”