Monday morning, I wake up still replaying the conversation with Weston over and over in my head. While no part of me feels like the same girl I used to be,thatfelt exactly like it used to.
Weston was always my safe place to land. He always had my best interests at heart and would tell me what I needed to hear, not what I wanted to hear.
But I’m left feeling confused because if he wants to be friends, why did he put me in this dilapidated cabin? There’s no way I would put anyone I had any respect for in place with no hot water or mattress. I suppose he can have one brownie point for at least providing me with blankets and sheets.
This is a good reminder for me to keep my guard up. We can be friendly, but that doesn’t mean we are friends. Friends don’t make friends live like this. Though I have to admit, this is still a step up from my first apartment in New York. It was moldy and musty, and the cockroaches and mice were best friends who refused to vacate the premises, but it was all I could afford.
Stepping out of the shower, I shiver as I reach for my towel. The good news about cold morning showers is that they freeze the tired right out of you. All the exhaustion I was feeling before is nowhere to be found, but a fresh bit of “fuck Weston” has been restored.
My phone rings on my bed, and I tiptoe across the creaking floor. I hate being barefoot in here; it feels like a sliver waiting to happen. I need to grab a pair of slippers on my next visit to town. When the time comes to fix this cabin up, I won’t need any guidance from Weston. I’ll be able to tell the contractors exactly what needs to be worked on.
My phone lights up on the bathroom counter, and Grandpa’s name appears alongside one of the few photos we have together. A wave of anxiety comes over me when he calls out of the blue. He’s not exactly young, and I’m terrified I’m going to lose him before I’m ready. Not that anyone is ever ready or mentally prepared for that.
Fumbling with my phone, I bring it to my ear. “Gramps, is everything okay?”
“Good morning, Lolo, everything is just fine. Well, besides my truck. That old hunk of junk might not be repairable.”
“What do you mean?” I try to keep my voice level, but I can hear the shrillness behind it.
“When Eddie came by to pick it up this morning, he took a look under the hood and told me it might not be worth it to put any more money into fixing it. So, I’ll have to let you know. But don’t plan on having it back in driving condition anytime soon.”
Son of a bitch, I was supposed to be meeting with some contractors tomorrow. I need a vehicle, but I can’t tell my grandpa that because I don’t want him to worry. He spent too many of his golden years worrying. He deserves to be carefree. And I can’t tell my boss I need a rental now, because I told him I didn’t need one since my grandpa had offered his up.
“That’s okay, Gramps, I’m sure I’m going to be able to figure something out,” I assure him, trying to make my voice sound as calm as possible. “Sorry, sweetheart, I know it’s not the news you were hopingfor, but my girl always makes it work. I’m going to head down to the diner and get my coffee and breakfast with the rest of the old geezers. I’ll see you soon, love you.”
“Love you, too.” Pulling the phone away from my ear, I plop down on the bed, still wrapped in the towel.
The thought of what I am going to have to do rips away the fresh and rejuvenated feeling I was relishing a few minutes ago. The urge to stay in bed and pretend this isn’t yet another roadblock coming on too soon is strong.
I wanted to put some distance between Weston and me, but it seems the universe has other plans because I’m going to have to ask for a favor…again.
Walking into Weston’s office, I prepare myself for how I am going to ask for help. During the walk over, I ran through about a million different ways this conversation could go in my head. I didn’t, however, prepare for the sight of Weston at his desk in a backward ball cap. Don’t get me wrong, he looks great in a cowboy hat, but I always had a soft spot for him in a ball cap. At eighteen, he was still baby-faced, but now, he has stubble covering his strong jaw. He looks the same as he did back then, only older, and more handsome, because apparently the world likes to make my life hard.
He notices me staring and shoots me one of his crooked grins. My heart thumps erratically in my chest, and I feel like I'm a teenager again.I try to form a word or two, but not a single thought strings together in my mind.
He clears his throat before breaking the ice. “Morning, I got you a coffee. Hopefully I made it right.” He goes to hand it to me, but the motion is choppy, and if there wasn’t a lid on it, half of it would have sloshed onto the floor. Apparently, I’m not the only one who is nervous this morning.
My jaw hangs open awkwardly, and I open and close it like a fish a few times before finally sputtering out, “You made me coffee?”
“Yeah?” he questions, still holding the coffee out to me.
“Why?” The fact that one of his first thoughts of the day was something to make mine easier is hard to wrap my head around. I’m usually the caretaker when I’m in New York. I think I might have forgotten what it’s like to be cared for in this way. With the little things.
“Because it’s a Monday and Mondays usually suck, and I wanted to?” He shrugs one shoulder up. At this point, the arm holding his coffee has to be getting tired.
“Oh. Uhm, thanks,” I respond before accepting the cup from him and taking a sip. It warms me up from my frigid shower and slightly melts the icy feelings I have toward my new business partner and ex-love of my life.
“Did I do okay?” he asks tentatively, his thick eyebrow crinkling with concern, and I can’t believe he cares this much about my coffee.
“It’s perfect,” I assure him. This gesture is so incredibly sweet that I lose the fight of hiding my smile.
“More creamer than coffee isn’t perfect, but I’m glad that I still remember how you like it.” His smile is genuine and warm and makes the wilted piece inside me perk up a little. It’s been twelve years and hestill remembers how I like my coffee. It makes me wonder if my own fiancé knows how I like my coffee.
Clearing my throat, not really wanting to dig up that bag of worms, I set the coffee down on the desk between us and sit in the chair. He follows my lead and picks up a stack of papers. “So, I hate to do this, but I need a favor…again.”
He stops flipping through his papers and looks at me with no hesitation before saying, “Anything you need, consider it done.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask?” If I thought the coffee thing had me discombobulated, this tops it. How does he say exactly what I need to hear without me having to clue him in?
