Ah. So this wasn’t a lease issue at all. He and Brittany were fighting again. Good to know that our new arrangement was starting with a lie. Typical Kent.
I crossed my arms, leaning against the closed door. “How long do you actually need to stay?”
Kent’s eyes swept over my apartment again—the neatly made bed in the corner, the small desk where I’d been working when he called, the couch that was going to be his new home. I could see the calculation happening behind his eyes, weighing how much honesty he could afford to put up with.
“Two weeks,” he said finally. “Tops. Just until I find a new place.”
Two weeks. I felt my stomach drop. When he’d said “a night or two, maybe a week” on the phone, I’d been hoping for three days maximum before he got bored and left. Two weeks in four hundred square feet with Kent sounded like a special kind of torture.
“Two weeks,” I repeated, more to myself than to him.
“Is that a problem?” There was an edge to his voice, that familiar sharpness that used to precede him shoving me into lockers.
Yes, I wanted to say. Yes, it’s a problem. You made my life hell since I was sixteen years old, and now you show up out of nowhere expecting me to house you like nothing ever happened. Like you didn’t call me every slur in the book. Like you didn’t make me dread coming downstairs for breakfast every fucking day.
“No,” I said instead, because apparently I was still the same pushover he remembered. “Two weeks is fine.”
Kent nodded, satisfied, and started peeling off his soaked hoodie. He was built like he lifted bricks all day long, which maybe he did for all I knew. He had broad shoulders and thick arms, the kind of body that came from actual labor rather than a gym membership. Water droplets clung to his neck as he tossed the hoodie over one of my kitchen chairs.
“You got any towels?” he asked. “I’m soaked through.”
I pushed off from the door and walked to the small linen closet near the bathroom. “Yeah, hold on.”
As I pulled out a clean towel, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I looked tired. Resigned. Exactly how I felt. Behind me, I could hear Kent opening and closing my cabinets, probably looking for food already.
“Help yourself,” I called out, unable to keep the sarcasm completely out of my voice.
“Already am,” he called back.
Of course he was. Asshole.
I walked back out with the towel and tossed it at him. He caught it one-handed, already chewing on what looked like one of my protein bars.
“Those are expensive,” I said.
“I’ll buy you more.” He didn’t look at me as he said it, rubbing the towel through his hair.
Sure he would. Just like he’d be gone in two weeks. I was starting to compile a list of Kent’s lies, and we were only ten minutes in.
I moved to the counter and picked up his soggy box, holding it at arm’s length as water dripped onto my floor. “Where do you want this?”
“Just throw it anywhere.”
“It’s leaking all over my apartment.”
He finally looked at me, and for a second I saw something flicker across his face. Annoyance, maybe. Or embarrassment. With Kent, it was hard to tell the difference. “Put it in the bathtub then. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
I carried the disintegrating box to the bathroom and set it in the tub, watching brown water pool around the bottom. Whatever was in there was probably ruined. I wondered if it was important, then decided I didn’t care enough to ask.
When I came back out, Kent had made himself comfortable on my couch, his wet, socked feet propped up on my coffee table. He’d found the remote and was flipping through channels like he owned the place.
“Make yourself at home,” I said flatly.
“Thanks, I will.” He didn’t catch the sarcasm, or more likely, he caught it and didn’t care.
I stood there for a moment, watching him, this stranger who used to be my tormentor, now sitting in my living space like he belonged there. The worst part was how easily he did it—how naturally he took up space, claimed territory, made himself the center of gravity in any room he entered.
I used to wish I could do that.
