“Friends.” He said the word like he was tasting something sour.
“Yes. I don’t have many. Plus, you’re living with my best friend, and I’d like to feel comfortable in my own house without everything being weird.”
My own house. I’d said it without thinking. It was Chantel’s house. My borrowed room. But somewhere in the last few weeks, it had started to feel like mine.
And now he was in it.
“Okay. I can work with friends.” The words were agreeable. The look in his eyes was not. “But if we’re doing no regrets, then let me take you out. Not a date. Call it whatever you want. Just say yes.”
“How about we just hang out here? Like roommates would.”
“Hang out. Like roommates…”
“Yes. It’s what friends do.” I pointed at my bedroom door. “Now get out. I need a shower and about twelve more hours of sleep.”
“All right.” He held my stare for a beat too long. Then something shifted behind his eyes, and he moved to leave. But he stopped in the doorway, looking back. “You sure you’re okay? I was worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine. But thank you. You’re already a good friend.”
“Anytime.” His smile was real, but there was an edge underneath it that told me friend was a word he planned to redefine.
He disappeared down the hall and only seconds later, his door closed.
Every day. Every morning. Every night. He’d be right there.
I sank onto the bed and breathed through the nausea trying to take hold.
Friends was the right call. The only call. But how the hell was I going to live across the hall from this man and not sexually frustrate myself into an early grave?
I couldn’t put a baby on hold to chase a guy. I wasn’t my mother.
But that look on his face told me this was far from settled.
That let-down feeling burrowed deep into my bones and reminded me I needed to dig a deeper hole for that thing called hope. It kept clawing its way back out of the grave.
Week 8
Chapter Ten
Caleb
Doubt weighed on me as I stood at Chantel’s kitchen counter, staring at the sandwich I’d made.
It was a solid roast beef on rye with provolone and tangy Dijon, topped with a leafy green mix. The kind of sandwich that should’ve had me salivating.
Too bad I wasn’t hungry. I couldn’t have stomached it even if I tried. I just didn’t know what else to do with myself.
Through the kitchen window, Zadie sat cross-legged on a blanket in the backyard, a sketchpad balanced on her knee. Her hair was piled in a messy knot on top of her head, and she was wearing an oversized shirt streaked with color that had probably been white at some point. She was completely absorbed, her hand moving in quick, confident strokes across the page.
I’d been watching her for twenty minutes. Which was either dedication to the art of sandwich-making or the behavior of a man who needed professional help.
Five days since I’d moved in, and I still hadn’t figured out what the hell I was doing with my life. No school, no job, no plan. Just a room across the hall from a woman who’d made it clear she didn’t want me.
None of that should’ve mattered. I had time. I had options. I had a family ten minutes away who’d bend over backward to help if I let them.
But all I could think about was her.
Instead of pursuing her, I’d spent two days hiding in my room like a fucking coward. Timing my trips to the bathroom. Pretending I couldn’t hear her through the walls.
