this kid is clearly beyond bedtime stories. She’s eight going on eighteen. And that adds to the mounting sadness I have about the state of her life. I’d like to call her mother back and give her another piece of my mind. Or maybe a black eye to match mine, though I would normally say violence isn’t the answer. With Eleanor, a pack of wild dogs would be a fine answer.
“I’m just going to watch until I fall asleep,” she says.
“Okay. I’ll be on the couch if you need me. Don’t forget to brush your teeth. Do you have a toothbrush?”
“I’m not a caveman,” she says, with a little more sneer than I’d like in her voice. I have to remind myself that she has clearly not had a typical or healthy upbringing if what I know so far is any indication.
But our interactions just solidify my resolve that I am not a kid person. I’m the kind of person who plans to work hard, maybe one day meet a man, get a few house plants, and a dog that doesn’t shed. It’s not such a bad life plan.
Is it?
“Right. Well. Goodnight, Ella.”
Instead of answering, she puts earphones on and snuggles up against the headboard, looking entirely too small, too feminine, and too alone in this giant bed. She seems like she needs a hug, and also like she would completely reject one. Especially from me.
I find a few clean towels in the guest bathroom and set them on the counter, just in case. When I peek in on her before heading back down the hall, she is totally engrossed in whatever is on the screen in front of her.
The laundry room is by the kitchen and I go to switch the sheets from the washer to the dryer. I should have thrown my clothes in there, but I didn’t think of it. The dryer is full of clean, fresh-scented clothes of Gavin’s, and after making sure the door is closed, I strip out of my blouse and khaki shorts, replacing them with a giant T-shirt of Gavin’s and some athletic shorts that have a drawstring I manage to tighten enough to hopefully keep them in place.
I knock softly on Gavin’s door, not expecting a response. Still, it feels weird to walk in and not knock. It feels especially weird even seeing him now that I know something huge about his life that he doesn’t know.
“Gavin?” I say softly as I push open the door.
I left the lights off, only the cracked bathroom door allowing in a golden glow. It takes me a moment to realize that Gavin isn’t in his bed. The comforter is twisted around the sheets, making a Gavin-sized lump, but he is gone.
“Zoey?”
The bathroom door opens wider and there is Gavin in only a towel, his chiseled upper body glistening with tiny droplets of water from a shower.
I would be relieved that he’s up and moving, but I’m struck too dumb as my eyes follow a single bead of water over his collarbone and down his right pec, where it disappears into that soft patch of dark hair.
“What are you doing in my house? What are you doing in my bedroom? And what are you doing in my clothes?”
Chapter Thirteen
Gavin
I’m totally blaming the fever. The one that has subsided, but still not gone away. That is the only excuse I can think of for basically just accusing Zoey of being Goldilocks. All I need to add is a bit about my porridge and we would be right in the pages of a fairy tale.
Actually, the idea of Zoey in blonde pigtails in my bedroom wearing my clothes isn’t so bad. I could get rather used to this sight.
But why is she here?
I’m tracing back in my fever-addled brain, trying to remember Zoey being here. Things are fuzzy in there. No, fuzzy isn’t the right word. My thoughts are like a big vat of taffy, the kind they make in those shops at the beach, turning slowly, gooey and thick.
“You don’t remember?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.
I shake my head, but that’s a mistake because it causes a wave of dizziness to wash over me. I stumble, grabbing the doorframe in one hand and trying to maintain my slipping towel with the other.
Zoey gasps and takes a step toward me as though she’s going to steady me, then takes a step back, throwing her hands over her eyes. I would find it adorable if