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He’s actually a great roommate, better than my sister will be in terms of cleanliness, but hey, it’s a trade I have to make. Not that I wouldn’t choose my sister over a man any day of the week, but something inside me still twangs, telling me it’s a foolish exchange.
I toe off my shoes and pull off my socks. One of them is soaked because of that damn hole in my boot, but I’m resisting buying another pair. It’s my third pair this year alone. The catch twenty-two is I can’t really afford super high-quality boots, but the cheap ones fall apart fast, working as much as I do. I’ll be getting paid better now that I have this management position, but a wet foot isn’t as irritating as my sister’s college loans, and I promised her, when she considered not going because she felt she should be earning not spending, I wouldn’t let her stress about it. And that means college loan payments are my priority.
All I need is a plastic bag to line the insides. I’ve just been too busy to think about it. Too preoccupied to think of anything really. Even food. Since moving in, I haven’t been to the grocery store for a while, and all I have is my peanut butter and bread here, but after thirty-five thousand steps and being up for sixteen hours, I have no interest in driving to town. Maybe I should have asked Dash to pick something up. But like most people, I don’t like asking for favors.
I pad quietly to the kitchen, trying not to disturb my roommate, but when I reach up to grab a glass for water, a guitar strums behind his bedroom door. The plucking is gentle, melodic, and I wish he was on my side of his door. I adore hearing and watching people play guitar. I follow at least nine, ten guitar channels on YouTube. I never played an instrument growing up and am always taken with people who do. Maybe it’s the discipline, I’ve always admired hard work, or maybe it’s that music has a way of allowing emotion the way nothing else does. I just love it.
I stand dead still, trying to make out the tune he’s playing when the sound of his deep, rich voice, even quieter than the guitar strings, hums. His humming isn’t how ordinary people hum. It’s more like singing, and the melody melds with the chords he plays. I strain my ears, wondering what the song is, asking myself what kind of song a man like Dash would like to play on his guitar.
I can’t be sure… it sounds familiar. Something I’ve heard on the Oldies station back when my grandma was alive and had it going in her kitchen all the time over the long summers we spent with her when Mom actually had some work on. Those were good summers. Those were summers where an adult actually took care of me.
My ears strain, and the richness of the same voice I heard in the stables enters me. God, I love Dash’s voice. Singing. Humming. Speaking. For a man who shows little emotion, his tone is packed full of it. It’s one of those voices that’s like a massage rubbing all over your sore muscles.
He stops strumming, and I quickly head to the kitchen, just in case he comes out of his room. I don’t want him catching me staring at his door. I run the faucet and fill my glass, thinking he might emerge, but he doesn’t.
Disappointing, but I should have expected it. We are not friends.
My stomach rumbles. When I open the bread box, inside, next to my half loaf, is a small white box with a note on it.
Sunshine,
Thanks for working so hard.
D
PS Eat this. Or else.
I open the box, and inside is a slice of carrot cake with fluffy cream cheese frosting and a tiny fondant carrot. He got me dessert.
I glance back at his closed door. I can’t figure this man out. He’s prickly. He doesn’t stay in my presence longer than he has to. He never wanted to hire me or have me in his space but now… he does nice things for me? But if I try to do something nice for him, as simple as a bandage, he can’t run fast enough.
And our conversations… it’s clear neither one of us is used to pushing the boat out too far with our feelings. He’s definitely holding something inside that steely frame of his but… then he tells me a secret.
And me? I try not to burden others so I keep a lot inside, too. But when we exchange just a few words, it doesn’t make me worry the way I do when I’ve told others about my thoughts. I don’t wonder if I’m being judged or have said too much. It’s a relief when I talk to him.
I guess when you find someone who cares, or maybe doesn’t care at all, it feels good to unload.
I eat my cake and suppress the moans purring in the back of my throat because this carrot cake is the most orgasmic thing I’ve experienced in a long, long time. It’s the cake from CCs I had when I first met Jolie. She told me all about the town’s favorite baker. I even followSugar Shay, the woman behind the famous cake on social media. But I went on a dessert ban after that last slice. This Shay woman is my new best friend, and she doesn’t even know it.
I savor every last morsel. I stare at Dash’s note, and something about it takes away what I’d usually feel right now. I don’t feel the least bit bad that I ate a piece of cake for dinner. Dash said I was… well, he didn’t say it, but I think he believes I’m fine just the way I am, and even though it’s silly for a man’s opinion to make a difference, he’s not just any man. And it does make a difference whether it’s right or not.
I clean off the box and chuck it in the recycling, then take a drink of water that I should have had earlier because now I’ll have to pee in the middle of the night. I’m tired. Still, I consider the TV, wondering if he hears it would he come out to see me? Nah. I hate TV and I don’t want to disturb him so I head to my room, and just when I think the day couldn’t get any better, sitting in front of my bedroom door is a brand-new pair of boots.
ChapterThirteen
DASH
A certain satisfactionsurged through me when I bought Molly those boots and that cake. I didn’t even hesitate at the idea but I did tell myself it was not the way to stop fixating on her. And me buying her things wasn’t exactly upholding thewe’re not friendsstatement I made when I first allowed her into my life. Into my space. Into my every fucking thought.
But when she put herself down today, well, I’m a show-don’t-tell kind of guy and I meant what I said. I hate that the woman would even dream of starving those curves. That’s what had me walking to the counter at Creme de la Cremes asking for Shay’s famous cake. I tapped my foot waiting in the line, like everyone there knew the cake wasn’t for me. Like I was doing something secretive and illicit by buying it. I couldn’t have felt more exposed if I was buying her a goddamn ring.
But by the time I walked out of the store with a tiny white bag hanging off my fingers, I reasoned it was appropriate to reward her for a job well done, all her hard work. That’s why I bought the cake. It’s like leaving donuts in the break room. Sure, she’s being paid to do the things she does. And even staying up all night once in a while is part of the job. But she’s even more than I bargained for. It’s like a bonus for her extra grit. That’s all it is. Boss-to-employee gratitude.
And she needs proper equipment, too. The boots? Like buying a new hammer for Hank.
Starlight Ranch has come alive with her ideas. Her bubbly energy already infuses any space she occupies, that much is clear to see, but now, her positive outlook on growing a business I struggled to care about, actually has a bright future. Of course it does. Everything is bright around Molly.
Even me. Well, I’m less dim anyway. I don’t know if I should let myself like it or not. But like my mom always says, you can’t control your feelings, just what you do with them. And me? I bought boots and a slice of cake.
