Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73817 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73817 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“I’ll get you a few things and set up the couch.” He heads down the short hallway, where I guess the bedroom and bathroom are. After a moment in the bathroom, Cooper heads to a coat closet in the hallway, where he fetches a set of sheets and a pillow. “Go ahead, get settled in.”
He’s really gonna let me stay here? “Okay.”
“I have soda and water in the fridge. Make yourself at home, but keep your hands off the beer.”
I make a face. “Beer’s nasty.”
He brings the sheets and pillow to the couch in silence. After shifting the coffee table aside, he tosses the cushions off the couch, then pulls the whole thing open to a full bed, where he starts to fit the sheets.
I stand awkwardly to the side, watching. I’m surprised by the size of the fold-out couch. Is this even real? If I start to panic, I can still take off before sunrise. I’ve got a full belly and thirty bucks in my pocket.
But watching the tireless way in which Coop makes the bed, even after a stressful night working at the bar, makes me feel guilty for even considering fleeing.
What if this is the real deal?
Older men claimed to want to help me in the past. But in the end, every so-called nice guy had ulterior motives.
They wanted something in return—something I’d best provide with my clothes on the floor and my ass in the air.
And here Coop goes, setting me up a place to sleep on the couch. He isn’t inviting me to his bed. In fact, after all of his efforts in trying to find me a hotel room of my own, I get the sense setting me up in his own house was his very last resort. This is not part of some devious plan.
He doesn’t want me here.
“There,” he says when he finishes, tossing a freshly-covered pillow onto the fold-out bed. “Place to sleep. TV if you can’t. Remote’s on the coffee table. Fridge if you need a drink. Got apple juice also. Crackers in the cupboard.”
Crackers in the cupboard? Are those animal crackers? Is he about to offer me a juice box, too?
I feel like the ten-year-old he’s babysitting.
“Thanks,” I say anyway.
“If you need a shower, bathroom’s down the hall.” He rubs his head. “I need to finish up some work stuff before I nod off. Paperwork stuff. I’ll be in my room if you need anything.” He starts to head off.
“I won’t be here long.”
He stops and turns. “Hmm?”
“I …” Why am I already planning my escape route? I can’t let go of old habits, apparently. “I just meant I won’t be, uh … I won’t be a big inconvenience or anything. I just need to get the okay to come back home, then I’m gone.”
He appears confused for a second.
Did I just contradict my story with that statement?
I ramble on. “I-It’s my dad. There’s problems at home. That’s why I … That’s why I left. Once I get the okay from my mom, then I’ll be out of your hair. Promise.”
“Problems with your dad?”
Am I overthinking this? Do I not need this stupid story to keep him on the hook? Why can’t I just be honest?
“I … I don’t want to talk about it.”
After a moment, he nods. “Alright. So … you’ve got a phone? They’re gonna call you or something?”
“Not anymore. I …” My phone was stolen back in San Antonio. This story is getting too complicated. “I check in every now and then with my mom, that’s it. At a … a gas station. Or wherever I can. Just to see if the coast is clear.”
He frowns in thought. “And how long have you been waiting for that coast to clear?”
I avert my eyes and continue to hug myself, standing there like a ghoul. I’m out of stories to fudge together. Out of steam. Out of everything.
I’m so sick of lying.
“I don’t need to know the whole story if you don’t feel comfortable sharing it,” he says suddenly. “We can figure out something tomorrow. A better situation for you. Maybe the hotels will free up after the weekend. I can get you a room of your own, just ‘til you’re back on your feet.”
Back on my feet. What a concept.
A fucking pipedream, more like.
He spends a minute studying my silence, as if waiting for whether I have anything to say, then gives an indistinct grunt before dismissing himself to his room down the hall. His door is left open. Lamplight spills out when I hear a faint click, then the noise of soft tapping at a computer as he gets to work, I presume.
I hurry to the bathroom, shut the door, and lock it. A feeling of safety enwraps me, despite my drumming heart. A towel with pastel dots and stripes hangs on the rack next to a lime green washcloth. A pair of baby blue gym shorts, a plain white t-shirt, and gray Hilfiger boxer-briefs sit folded on the counter by the sink. None of them look like they’ve been worn before, or else they’re just super clean. On top is a brand-new toothbrush still in its package.