Carried Away - P. Dangelico Page 0,15
me he’s one Facebook post away from building a pipe bomb and driving to D.C. and I’m not about to do anything to anger him.
“Did you have anything for breakfast?” he asks as he peers into the open fridge, the massive width of his shoulders obscuring everything inside.
“No. I didn’t want to disturb whatever you were doing––“
“Painting. And I told you to help yourself to anything you wanted.”
Painting? This guy seems about as sensitive as an anvil. “Like…the walls?”
Looking over his shoulder, the glare he levels at me is a full-bodied one. This is not his usual glare-lite. This one means to intimidate. I’m guessing he found my question offensive. “No.”
“Sorry…” I mutter. “I might have a concussion. Everything’s that coming out of my mouth today sounds wrong.”
He pulls a loaf of sliced wholegrain bread out of the refrigerator and places it on the counter, follows it up with three bags of cold cuts, tomatoes and lettuce.
“Turkey or roast beef?”
“Turkey please.”
“Mayo or mustard?”
“Mustard.”
Turner moves around the kitchen with the ease of someone who’s comfortable preparing a meal. A few minutes later he places a plate in front of me. On it sits a perfectly made turkey sandwich sliced in two, bread lightly toasted, a bag of potato chips next to it. It looks and smells so good I can barely wait to sink my teeth into it.
“This is delicious. Thank you,” I say around a mouthful. “And thanks again for saving me.” He grunts in answer as he bites into his sandwich. “How did you find me, by the way?”
He puts his sandwich down and wipes his hands on the napkin. “Dumb luck. I was asleep on the couch and your headlights came through the window and hit me in the face.”
Dumb luck is right. Talk of the car reminds me that I need my toothbrush and a fresh pair of underwear ASAP. “Turner…I need my things. From the rental.”
He blinks, expression blank. Then he scowls and shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous for you to go out there.”
Yeah, I know. I’d probably never find my way back. “I need certain things in that luggage. Important things.”
“Nothing more important than your life.”
I’m glad he thinks so.
“You don’t understand…” I say softly, imploring him to understand with my eyes.
Sighing tiredly, he places his elbows on the table and claps his hands. “You want me to go get your stuff.”
“That would be really nice of you.”
He picks up the remains of his second sandwich and pops it in his mouth. Chewing, he cranes his neck to see out the window. “It’s still coming down pretty hard. You can borrow something of mine.”
This one was clearly not raised to be a gentleman, so I decide it’s time for the nuclear option. “Flo’s in town, Turner. So unless you can lend me some tampons…” I shrug. “I need my stuff.”
It takes my grouchy host thirty minute to walk sixty feet to the end of his driveway, rescue my suitcases out of the orange Cube, and return.
Slamming the front door shut, he drops my bags at my feet and glares at me. That’s alright, I can barely see with the blast of freezing cold air making my eyes water. Shivering and teeth chattering, he strips off his coat and gloves, kicks off his Timberlands.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
All I get in return is silence. After which he disappears again.
Two bars. That’s all the service I have by early evening as the storm moves out of the area leaving behind flurries and an enormous pile of snow.
In the meantime, I managed to take a hot shower. It’s official, he’s gay. I found Moroccan Oil shampoo and a rainbow bath towel in the decrepit bathroom. For a mountain man, he sure has expensive taste in hair products. The towel looked familiar. It was the same one he had wrapped around his shoulders last night.
After the shower, I wrapped my hair in buns and put on clean clothes, layering Jackie’s already ruined sweater on top. On closer inspection, this place hasn’t improved in cleanliness, and I don’t want to ruin any more clothes that don’t belong to me.
By nightfall, I am so out-of-my-mind bored that I begin to live dangerously––I knock on the door of the room Turner is hiding behind. I figure maybe a little conversation will help kill time, and he did make me arguably the best turkey sandwich I’ve ever tasted.
“What,” the grouch calls out.
This does not bode well, but I persist. “It’s Carrie…Anderson.