Chapter 9
Crash?
Carol is the epitome of a New Yorker.
Tough as nails, whip-crack sarcasm, walks like she owns every sidewalk she touches and would murder you with a coffee stirrer if you stepped into her lane.
But underneath all that steel?
She’s got a gooey fucking center.
Not that she’d admit it.
Ever.
And yeah, she’s hot.
Hot and cute, which should be illegal. One minute she’s rolling her eyes and calling me a pain in the ass, the next she’s blushing when I catch her smiling.
And the kindness? That shit hits different when you’re a guy with no name, no history, and not a damn thing to offer but a cast and a tragic backstory with zero details.
We’re wading through this chaotic, overstuffed secondhand shop—clothes everywhere, the air smelling like mothballs, dust, and dreams—and she’s in her fucking element. She’s pretending not to spoil me, trying really hard to play it cool, but she’s 100% failing.
Underwear and socks? She bought them new from Walmart first thing—packs, plural—because, and I quote, “I may pity you, but I’m not making you wear someone’s haunted underwear.” Which, fair.
And her taste?
Jesus.
She holds up this worn-in leather jacket, dark brown, heavy as hell, and tosses it at me like it’s no big deal.
“Try it. If it fits, you’re keeping it.”
Spoiler: it fits like it was made for me.
She nods once, smug. Like she knew. Like she’s been dressing me in her head for days and is finally executing the plan.
Three pairs of jeans. Five tees. Some black hoodie with a faded graphic that probably belonged to a roadie in 2004.
And now I’m kneeling on the floor, surrounded by mismatched sneakers, laces everywhere, trying to cram my foot into a pair of Nikes that clearly belonged to a child or a grown-ass man in denial.
“They don’t fucking fit,” I say, frowning down at the shoe like it personally betrayed me.
Carol glances over from a rack of flannels. “Because they’re a size nine, dumbass.”
“I am a size nine,” I protest, foot halfway wedged in like I’m trying to stuff a sausage into a Barbie dress.
“Crash, no offense, but your feet are definitely a ten. At least. You’ve been lying to yourself.”
I groan and yank the thing off. “Well shit. There go my dreams of reinventing myself as a petite-footed fashion icon.”
She tosses a box toward me. “Try these. Ten and a half. Room for swelling.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you calling me swollen?”
She smirks. “I’m calling you whiny. There’s a difference.”
I grin despite myself, slide the new pair on—and holy shit, they fit. Like, actually fit. Arch support and everything. I look up at her, and she’s already turning away, pretending she didn’t just clock my shoe size by vibe alone.
Witch.
Hot, sharp-tongued, undercover-soft witch.
We stumble out of the store with bags in hand—my bags, which still feels fucking surreal—and I’ve officially joined the ranks of the clothed and vaguely stylish. New jeans that don’t sag like a diaper, T-shirts that don’t smell like a train station, and the leather jacket?
Don’t even get me started.
Carol eyes me like she’s pretending not to admire her own work, but I catch the way her mouth twitches when I zip the jacket up. She knows. Oh, she fucking knows she killed it.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she mutters when I catch her looking. “You’re not a model just ’cause you own pants now.”
“Rude,” I say. “I’ve been stunning this whole time. You’re just finally giving me the tools to reach my potential.”
“Jesus Christ,” she groans, dragging me down the block by the elbow. “C’mon. Time to feed the ego and the stomach.”
We hit this little corner pizza place with flickering fluorescent lights and a sign that probably hasn’t been cleaned since Bush was in office.
The windows are steamed up, the smell of grease and garlic hits like a punch, and there’s some guy behind the counter who looks like he’s seen some shit—but damn if that pie doesn’t look like it descended straight from heaven.
Carol orders without asking. Just two slices, no frills, extra napkins.
She grabs one and slides the other toward me, steam rising off the cheese like a sex dream. “You should try it,” she says, already folding hers in half like a born New Yorker. “Best pizza in New York.”
I take the slice, still warm, cheese perfectly molten, crust thin but not floppy. “You say that like it’s fact.”
“It is fact,” she says around a mouthful, eyes narrowing. “You’re not allowed to argue. Eat the damn pizza.”
So I do. I take a bite. And holy fuck.
Hot. Salty. Perfect. The kind of greasy miracle that makes you forget you were ever sad, broke, or dangerously close to having a mental breakdown in a thrift store dressing room.
I make a sound that’s probably illegal in six states.
Carol watches me, smug as all hell. “Told you.”
I take another bite, groaning. “Okay. Fine. You win.”
She grins, wide and triumphant. “Of course I do. Stick with me, Crash. You’ll be dressed, fed, and slightly less tragic in no time.”
The rest of Saturday’s quiet.
Simple.
We head back to her apartment, bags slung over our shoulders, full of thrifted treasure and greasy pizza satisfaction. It’s not a day anyone would write a song about, but to me, it feels like fucking magic.
Because it’s normal.
And I haven’t had normal since the hospital shoved me out its doors with a pat on the back and a prayer.
Carol kicks off her shoes the second we step inside and tosses the bags onto the loveseat, stretching like a cat who’s officially done saving the world for the day.
I follow her lead—kick off my sneakers, drop the bags—and try to ignore the weird little flutter in my chest that comes from being let back into her space like I belong here.
Then comes the crash course in “Basic Human Functionality.” Spoiler: I fail. Hard.
It starts with laundry.
Carol gestures at the washer-dryer combo like a proud landlord showing off her kingdom. “Alright, Crash. First lesson in Being a Person: laundry. You’ve worn the same hoodie for four days and I’m starting to take it personally.”
I nod like I’m ready, like I’ve got this.
I do not have this.
She hands me a pile of shirts and tells me to separate colors from whites. I stare at them like they’re a puzzle. “Uh… this is white, right?”
She blinks. “That’s fucking gray.”
“Oh. Shit. Right.”
She watches as I bumble through the rest—fumbling the detergent, almost pouring it in the softener slot, somehow dropping a sock behind the machine in the process.
Her mouth opens, shuts. Opens again. “Have you ever done laundry in your life?”
“I—I don’t know,” I say, hands up. “Maybe? But clearly not well.”
Next: folding.
She dumps a pile of clean clothes onto the couch. I pick up a T-shirt and immediately start folding it like I’m trying to create abstract origami.
“What the fuck is that?” she asks, watching in horror.
“A shirt burrito?”
“No. Nope. Step aside. You’re under arrest.”
Then it’s the dishwasher.
“Oh, this’ll be easy,” I say, because how hard can dishes be?
Turns out?
Very.
I load it wrong. Plates where bowls go, cups upside down, silverware handle-side-up, which apparently is a goddamn war crime.
Carol stares at me like I just shot her cat. “How do you not know how to use a dishwasher?”
“I don’t know!” I groan, throwing my hands up. “My brain’s like a fucking blank Word doc with one sticky note that says ‘hot water good.’”
She mutters something about adopting a toddler with abs and takes over, fixing everything in thirty seconds flat.
I watch, helpless and vaguely impressed.
She glances back. “Don’t worry. We’ll teach you how to be a person one humiliating chore at a time.”
And the crazy part?
I don’t mind.
I’ll screw up every load of laundry, every dinner plate, every adulting task she throws at me—if it means I get to keep doing it here, in her space, with her.
The rest of the day drifts by in a weird haze of domesticity.
Carol throws her hair up in one of those messy buns that still somehow looks hot, rolls up the sleeves of her sweatshirt, and starts working her way through the fridge like a woman on a mission.
Pots clatter. Steam rises. The whole apartment starts to smell like roasted garlic, herbs, and holy salvation.
I park myself at the little island, nursing a fresh cup of coffee and trying not to stare like a creep while she absolutely owns her kitchen.
She doesn’t use recipes. No measuring cups.
She just eyeballs everything like a damn wizard, tossing in spices, flipping pans, chopping veggies with the speed and confidence of someone who’s fought both time and hunger and won.
She’s doing pasta, some kind of sautéed veggie medley, and what looks like a big-ass tray of baked chicken. She moves like she’s done this a hundred times, but there’s still a rhythm to it. A focus. It’s weirdly mesmerizing.
And, yeah, a little bit hot.
The fridge starts to fill with neatly packed containers. Everything labeled. Everything portioned. She’s got a whole week of food lined up like little edible soldiers ready for battle.
I blink at the extras she’s stacking in front of me—smaller containers, same meals.
“What are those for?” I ask, nodding toward the ones with bright green lids.
She doesn’t even look up. Just shrugs and starts packing another.
“For you,” she says, casual as hell. Like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just put a week’s worth of effort into making sure I don’t starve to death while she’s at work.
“While I’m at the hospital, you just reheat them in the microwave,” she adds. “Don’t blow it up.”
I stare at the containers like they might vanish.
“You’re meal-prepping for me?” I ask, like an idiot.
She side-eyes me while sealing a tub of broccoli. “No, Crash, I’m preparing a buffet for the ghost in the walls. Yes, for you. I’m not leaving you to live off ramen and whatever sad shit you’d drag home from the bodega.”
“Jesus,” I say, voice low. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to,” she snaps, shutting the fridge with her hip. “I want to.”
Then she turns back to the stove, like she didn’t just casually punch me in the heart.
And for a minute, I don’t say anything.