Page 10 of Saints & Sailors

Scott gathered my luggage, and I followed him up the path to the front door.

“Your mother’s already arranged things for you at the high school. You’ll go to Horton High, and in the morning, I’ll take you,” Scott said as he unlocked the door and pushed it open for me.

I scowled as I stepped inside. I was not in the mood for high school just yet. Couldn’t I settle in for another week first?

I took in Scott’s décor as I stood in the foyer, noticing that the flooring was all wood. There was nothing really to the space, and as Scott showed me to the next room, I realized he had no sense of style. With all the high ceilings and spacious rooms, there was room for creativity, which Scott clearly lacked. The living room simply held a coffee table, an ugly beige sofa, a brown leather chair and a large flat screen.

The kitchen lacked anything personal as well. The island was wiped clean and the fridge was a large empty steel canvas. There was nothing more to the brown cabinets and white countertops as well.

Every room was like this, as if Scott had just moved in. The place wasn’t exactly a bachelor pad, but it definitely lacked that home feeling.

When he showed me up to the second floor to my bedroom, I was surprised to find a stuffed tan teddy bear on the large queen-sized bed.

I went over and picked up the little guy, looking back at Scott speculatively.

He ducked his head, his cheeks tinting red as he switched from one foot to the other. “I wanted to decorate, but this was all so fast and I didn’t know what you liked.”

“Of course not,” I replied.

He set my luggage down by the door and looked around my room.

It was hollow, much like the rest of the house. Four white walls, cream-colored carpet, a walk-in closet, and a nice bed with a navy and baby blue theme.

I removed my white low top Converse, taking it all in. This was my sanctuary, at least until I found a better place to be.

“What’s your favorite color?” Scott asked me. “We could paint this room and decorate it however you please.”

I lifted and dropped my shoulder. “Don’t have one.”

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with the color green, and then I liked red, and then I liked black. After a while, I thought it was dumb to have a favorite color. I changed my mind too much.

Scott led the way back to the first floor, mentioning something about food, which immediately caught my attention.

“I work at the local grocery store,” he informed me. “I’m their grocery manager, that’s the department I run, but sometimes I act as store manager or manager on duty. I could see about getting you a job at the bakery or even a cashier. There are a lot of departments at Marty’s, so it could be up to you.”

“Manual labor?” I pretended to shudder at the thought.

Scott chuckled. “Gotta make a living, Saylor.”

My mother came from money, and even she enjoyed teaching her pottery classes. Marrying the Asshole hadn’t slowed her down her once. In a lot of ways, that was admirable of her.

“My schedule varies. I work a few nights a week, but I made sure to adjust my schedule this week so that I could take you to school until we can figure out a ride arrangement,” Scott said. “On weekends I like to practice with my band and⁠—”

“You have a band?” I perked up just a little. Maybe Scott wasn’t some pathetic and boring sap after all.

He chuckled. “I’m in a Pink Floyd cover band. We’re called P. Floyd, and I play bass.”

I settled down, drowning in my disappointment. “Oh.”

“You know them?”

“Not really.” I knew they were an old band, but I couldn’t even think of a single record by them.

It was still pretty neat he was into that kind of thing. Classic rock was my favorite genre, so I was sure Pink Floyd were great.

“We play some shows every once in a while. I’ll have to introduce you to the guys.” Scott drummed his fingers on the countertop, appearing awkward and nervous. “Hungry?”

I stood from the island and went and raided his fridge, discovering a drawer of lunch meat and cheese, and a lot of fruit and vegetables to snack on. In the pantry, there were a lot of dry ingredients, nothing that would be quick to whip up. Something told me Scott was a homemade type of guy.