Instead of my usual baggy shorts and shirt, I’ve picked the very last clean clothes I have. A pair of threadbare denim shortsand a white shirt that’s been worn so many times the fabric has gone a little thin.
Glancing down at my backpack, I wrinkle my nose at the neatly folded pile of dirty clothes and contemplate taking them down to the kitchen and washing them in the sink. But then a thought crosses my mind. Does Warrick have a washing machine?
Barefoot, I head back downstairs, then carefully explore the kitchen, opening one cabinet at a time to see if one of them hides a machine. It doesn’t, and I resign myself to washing my things in dish soap again.
Spying the cell from the corner of my eye, I contemplate texting Warrick, then dismiss the idea. Leaving the kitchen, I sit down on the couch and stare at the TV, but now that the idea of washing my clothes is in my head, I can’t get it out.
I don’t remember the last time I wore anything that smelled truly clean, and the desire to smell laundry detergent and fabric conditioner is making me long for the comforts I’d gotten used to before I was forced to leave my old life behind.
Emboldened, I stand and pick up the cell, typing out a message and hitting send before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Do you have a washing machine?
A wave of nausea at my audacity rushes over me, and I place one hand over my mouth and the other over my stomach. Warrick has already done so much for me, it’s wrong to even think about asking for more. I’m contributing nothing, eating his food, using his electricity and hot water and…
The cell phone beeps, and I have to fumble not to drop it. Turning it in my palm, I brace for his anger, but instead his message simply says:
Warrick: Washer and dryer are in the garage. Detergent, fabric softener, and dryer sheets are in the cabinet above. Xoxo
All of the irrational fear I’d built up in the last ten seconds drains from me, and I wilt, sinking to my haunches on the floor. What is wrong with me? I asked him if I could use his washer, not if he’d sign over his house to me. What exactly did I think he’d say? This man has been so incredibly kind to me, and I’ve turned him into an ogre in my head because I asked to wash my clothes.
I’m an asshole.
Feeling awful, I rush upstairs, grab my backpack, then tentatively push open the door that leads to the garage. It’s dark, but when I turn on the light, it reveals his home gym filled with weights and exercise machines. In the far corner are the washer and dryer, and I quickly march over to them, opening the lid and tipping all of my dirty clothes into the drum.
Finding the detergent just where he said it’d be, I add less than I need, then set the machine to run, glad that it’s a basic enough model that I only have to twist the dial to make it work. Once the familiar whoosh of water starts, I sink to the floor and wait.
I know I could go back to the sofa and turn on the TV, but I feel awful for imagining Warrick would berate me for asking to use his washer, so instead of being comfortable, I punish myself by sitting on the cold, hard concrete floor until the machine slows to a stop and beeps, heralding the end of the cycle.
My legs are stiff when I clamber to my feet and move my clothes from the washer to the dryer, not adding a dryer sheet, before I hit the start button and retake my uncomfortable position on the floor.
I’m cold and achy by the time my clothes are washed, dried, and refolded in my backpack. They smell amazing, but I feel too awful to enjoy it, as I carry my backpack back upstairs and place it by the side of the bed.
My stomach is growling as I walk slowly back downstairs and take a seat on the couch, staring at the dark TV screen and wondering if I should turn it on.
A knock at the door makes my eyes go so wide that they hurt. Freezing, I stare at the door and wonder who it could be and what they’ll say if I answer it. The only people who know I’m here are Cora and her family and James and her husband.
A second knock has me pushing off the seat and tiptoeing to the window to peer outside. Standing on the step are a huge man and a tiny woman, who looks like she aspires to be Wednesday Addams.
Like they were expecting me, the woman turns to look at me, smiles, then waves.
Jumping back, I fall on my ass on the floor, my heart beating erratically.
“Verity,” a male voice calls.
They know who I am? That’s strange. I’ve never seen either of these people before, so Warrick must have told them about me.
“Verity, could you open the door, please?” the male voice says, the tone a little odd but stern enough to have me scrambling to my feet and opening the door an inch.
“Hi,” the woman says, smiling widely the moment she sees me. “I’m Octy, and this is my husband Knight. We’re friends of Warrick’s. But I’m guessing by how freaked out you look right now that he didn’t tell you we were coming to meet you?” she says.
“No, he didn’t mention anything,” I say, my voice pathetically small. “He’s not here right now.”
“Oh, we know. We’re here to see you.”
“Me?” I splutter, utterly confused.
“Could we come in?” she asks, softening her voice a little.
