"You didn't have to wait out here for me." Xavier's voice startles me. It's not hard to do, considering every serial killer movie and true crime documentary I binged on Netflix is now running through my head.
"Yes, of course, that's what I was doing. Not mailing a letter to my friend in case you decide to have a perverted dark side that will end with me being dismembered and boiled." Dear God, maybe my death wouldn't be a bad thing. It'd put me out of my misery, at the very least. It may be the only thing to silence my mouth. The awkward giggle that bubbles out only makes it that much worse.
Xavier smiles though. "I promise I'm not."
"No skeletons in the closet then?" We fall in step, heading back down the driveway to my door for the second time tonight.
His smile falters and Xavier clears his throat. "Not actual humans, at least. This is an odd conversation, I must admit. Maybe we could talk about something less weird, like marrying a stranger."
It's my turn to laugh. "Right? This is weird."
Xavier reaches in front of me and pulls the door open, holding it to let me pass. A very gentlemanly thing to do.
I'm not sure anyone's ever done it for me before.
Huh.
Before I can have yet another bout of verbal diarrhea, Xavier asks, "Where's the loo? If you don't mind, I'd like to freshen up a bit before I turn in. It's been a long day, and I'm a bit knackered."
I glance at my phone which tells me it's after ten already. Yikes! Where did the time go? It's time for me to sit staring at a blank notebook and then berate myself for being a failure of a writer before I've even started.
I don't know how to end my day without that. I'm nothing if not consistent in my chaos.
"Bathroom's this way." I point down the small hall. The moment Xavier's behind the closed door and I hear the shower running, I dash to my bedroom, throw on my unattractive pajama pants and oversized college T-shirt and curse myself for not having cute sleepwear.
Well, I do have that French maid outfit I bought for Trent, but I'm pretty sure Xavierneverwants to see me in that.
And I don't know why I care about what I'm wearing. He won't. He won't even look twice. I'm the means to an end for him, and he's going to be the means to an end for me.
A perfectly symbiotic fake relationship.
I mean, he's already treating me better than my last—several—real relationships did. Maybe I should always only have fake relationships.
I have a fuzzy blanket or two already out in the living room, so all I need is my favorite pillow and my Kindle, and I'm ready to sleep on the couch. It's too small for Xavier to be comfortable on and in any case, he's a guest.
Once my stuff is situated on the couch and I've procured my emotional support water bottle, I sit down at my desk. The purple Moleskine notebook is there.
But tonight, it's not taunting me. It's calling to me. Begging me to open it and fill it with words. Words that have been flowing through and knocking around my brain since the diner.
The first page has the list of the things I want in life.
The second page has the title. I cross that out and write a new one.
And before I know it, my hand is moving quickly as words fill the third page. Then the fourth. And fifth.
Who knew writing was this easy when you had a hot soccer player naked in the next room for inspiration?
Chapter 22: Xavier
I wonder what she's writing.
She's bent in half, huddled over her desk, almost like that Horton Dibble in school who was terrified that everyone was trying to cheat off him, so he had to protect his paper at all costs. He was a bit of a dunce, so no one ever wanted to copy his answers, but that's neither here nor there.
One dark plait makes a line down her back while the other is tucked in front of her shoulder. She's changed into her sleep clothes, complete with fuzzy socks that look like something my mum would wear on a cold winter night.
Instantly I'm hit with a pang of homesickness that feels as if someone has slammed into me while charging for the ball. What would Mum think of this situation? I know she'd love to have me home with her and Da, but she also wants me to play, no matter the cost.
I'm going to have to read that bloody contract to see what it says about telling our families. Not that Mum would think poorly of Ophelia for entering into this arrangement. In fact, she'd probably smother her with love for helping me out. I do think the two of them would get on famously.
