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I kiss the top of his head and pick up the mug. “Let’s get some sustenance in you.”
That earns me a peck on the lips and Noah’s hands circling the warm cup. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“Always. Want anything else?”
Noah takes a sip of his drink, humming soft in delight and somehow tucking himself tighter to me without spilling any of it. “Watch Chrono Crusade with me?”
“Sure, but just one episode. I’ve got to get ready for work.” I say, squeezing his shoulder. “I’ll get my laptop.”
He doesn’t want to move, but when I inch the pancakes into his line of sight, he willingly sits up and switches out his cup for the plate and sets it in his lap. “Love you as much as I can!” he says with his signature Noah grin.
Glad that he’s feeling better, I head to the bedroom to grab my laptop from the desk, and smile when I spot a small collection of sticky notes with Atlas’ chicken scratch across them.
‘Text me when you get to work’
‘NO DAD TODAY’
‘PS that drug dealer money better be going to your dad and not straight to them or so help me I will tie you to the bed so they can give HIM a beat down and not you’
‘Not in a kinky way. Are you kinky?’
‘Can’t be your boyfriend today, but I’ll make it up to you by taking you on the best thought experiment date ever.’
I one hundred percent shouldn’t be crushing on Atlas, but I think somewhere deep down I’ve always had this special fondness for him. I’ve always wanted to protect him and look out for him, and Noah says I’m a natural caregiver.
Still, the notes fill me with a foreign kind of happiness, something that has me stacking them together and setting them inside my nightstand drawer beside my Chapstick collection. It’s not a hoard—contrary to Atlas’ belief—but it definitely takes up a good half of the drawer.
When I pick up my phone from its charger, there’s a text from the anonymous app. It’s not from A, but from another no-name, no-number texter with a list of questions a mile long. Usually I respond right away, wanting to help people work through their problems as badly as they want to themselves. But Noah is waiting for me in the other room, and the only other person I want to talk to right now is otherwise preoccupied.
There’s nothing wrong with taking some time for myself, I think, and leave the phone on the table as I swipe the laptop and retreat from the room.
It’ll be there in an hour when I have to get ready for work. Just like Atlas’ notes will still be in the drawer when I get home, and I can refrain from interrupting his day with his brother.
Even if I’m already craving his company again.
My least favorite way to spend the day is cutting mold out of carpet, or digging it out of air vents. It would be nice if I had an actual mask instead of this old bandana that hasn’t been cleaned since the last time I used it to wipe the oil off the dipstick when I checked the levels in my car.
It’s my own fault, though. I thought I had a couple in the glove compartment, but that was just a stack of takeout napkins. I’ll have to make a note to stop by the drug store when I’m done and pick up some more.
This house is giving me a run for my money; that’s for sure. But they’re paying me a grand to deep clean the place, so I’m trying not to complain too much. I spent at least an hour just picking up general trash and shit, but then I found the mold, and well... here we are.
The upside is all of the texts I’ve been getting from Atlas. Embarrassingly enough, it ticks my happy box that he’s texting me right now and not B. Not that I mind those, but it feels more personal, less like we have something to hide.
Almost every message is a picture. The first was of a plate with chocolate pancakes, hash browns, eggs, and it was directly followed by a picture of Atlas holding a sausage suggestively in his mouth. I shouldn’t have looked while I was driving because I nearly jerked the wheel with how hard I wheezed.
The next picture was a half sideways image of Ryder with his backwards baseball cap drinking a hot coffee out of a straw, edited to say ‘#TooGoodForGerms’. After that, there was one of Atlas in a hardware store holding a handful of nuts with laughing emojis all over the screen.
Every time I needed a break, was frustrated or tired, I’d find a new picture on my phone, and it would renew some of my energy.
It’s been an hour or so, and the last one I got was of Atlas sitting on the tailgate of his brother’s truck, grinning sneakily at the camera. He’s wearing a yellow and black plaid button up—unbuttoned—with a white tee underneath, and the way his jean-clad leg is propped beside him with his arm resting on his knee; he looks like he’s posing for a calendar spread.
It’s none of his business if I save it as my background for a bit.
I never responded to that last one, but only because there’s no way I could match it. I’ve got a smartphone, but it’s still crummy, and I’m not that photogenic. Plus, with all the hazardous material around me, it would make for a pretty nasty shot anyway.
On that front, things only get worse. Making it to the bathroom, I see why they were in such a hurry to get someone in here. There’s black mold and grime covering the tub. The toilet is overflowing with sops of toilet paper and mushed up turds. The walls and counters are so yellow bleach wouldn’t stand a chance. The mirror is shattered with shards all over the damn place.
The walls, the floor, half of it looks like it’s rotting out and needs to be replaced. It’s a job much bigger than me alone, and sure as hell is worth more than what they’re paying me.
