The trouble is gorgeous. The trouble plays no games, offers no apologies. The trouble knows exactly what she’s worth and demands nothing less.
But not all relationships are the same. I’m reminded of an advertisement I saw for the local Humane Society years ago—one of those signs with a picture of a puppy that saidI’m not a toy. I’m a lifelong commitment. Consider carefully before inviting me into your life.
I don’t do lifelong commitment. I don’t do deep feelings. And when I invite someone into my life, I keep the exit within reach so that I can boot them out when it’s time.
Aurora Marigold isn’t a Humane Society puppy. But she’s not a one night stand, either. And I get the feeling she’s so snappish with me because I dared to see a moment of vulnerability from her in that holding cell, a moment no one but her sisters was supposed to witness.
Despite the fact that Aurora is currently cleaning my spare bedroom, the house is silent. I gave her a pair of headphones to borrow, and she plugged them into her phone immediately. I’m dying to know if she’s the sort to dance around while she listens to music, but unfortunately I don’t think I’ll find out, because the door is closed.
I guess I could go peek, but it feels like overstepping somehow. So I’ll stay here in my half-unpacked living room and continue to give her privacy while she rage-cleans—let her do her thing. I asked if she wanted different clothes, because we came straight here after visiting Tyler so she’s still in her skirt. But she waved the question away like it was inconsequential. Like work clothes had never stopped her from cleaning before, so why would they stop her now?
She just marched up the steps when I gestured to them and down the hall when I pointed, depositing herself in the spare bedroom with a renewed businesslike expression. She glanced around with her hands on her hips, and I could practically see her mind whirling, a plan forming behind her eyes. It was like I was no longer in the room.
So single-minded. So determined and bold and decisive, headstrong in a way that has served her well. They’re qualities I admire—qualities I envy, even. Because what would those things look like in my life? If I had half her ability to grit her teeth and step into the unknown, I’d probably be earning my own money based on my own merit by now. I’d probably be my own person, too, whoever that is. Whatever that man looks like.
I’m not sure I know. It’s been a long time since I’ve been Roman instead of Roman Drake, son of Harris Drake, doer of random deeds and runner of errands and all-around follower of instructions.
A little part of me withers when I think about Aurora uncovering this most cowardly side of me—a side she’s already seen more of than I’d like. But the only thing I’d be more ashamed of than cowardice is pretending I’mnota coward.
I could change that about myself, if I wanted. My tendency to hide, to take the easy way out. Not for Aurora—who, yes, is inconveniently alluring, but not enough to prompt a whole new way of living.
I’m just not sure I love who I am anymore. The things that were once fun seem more distasteful than they used to. In a strange, uncharacteristically poetic way, I almost feel wings trying to unfurl—except they have no room. They’re cramped into a tiny little box.
A snort escapes me as I shake my head, leaning further back into the couch cushions. What a stupid thought. There are no wings. But the image stays with me all the same, burrowing into my mind until I’m glancing around, looking for any sort of distraction.
And maybe some sort of higher power takes pity on me, because I’m startled out of my thoughts by a loud noise—somewhere between a thump and a clatter, coming directly from where I know the guest room to be. My gaze whips toward the hall that leads to the stairs.
Should probably check on that.
I hurry toward the steps; then I make my way up and stroll down the hall to the closed door of the spare bedroom, which I knock on a few times before letting myself in. I peer around the door to find more or less what I expected: Aurora, grimacingdown at a toppled pile of boxes, shaking her hands slightly and appearing out of breath.
Although she let her hair down when we visited her ex, it’s back in a ponytail now, not neat but messy with wisps falling out at her temples. Her suit jacket has been tossed carelessly on the bed, but there’s still a slight sheen visible on her skin in the light of the open window. The breeze floating in doesn’t do much to mask the scent of cleaner, which has gotten a lot of use, now that I look more closely at the rest of the room instead of the woman standing in it. The window gleams with crystal-clear glass, and the mirror-front closet doors are spotless. The plastic bag I provided her earlier seems to be bulging with used Clorox wipes, most of which I would guess have been disinfecting and dusting the large chest of drawers and attached mirror—the warm wood appears more saturated now that it’s not drowning in a layer of fine dust.
When I turn my gaze back to Aurora, I’m tempted to make a joke or say something cheeky, because a whole host of opportunities present themselves at the way she’s looking at those fallen boxes. But I resist the urge, mainly because upon further inspection I notice a slump in her shoulders, her spine curved like she’s hovering dangerously close to defeat.
So I step further into the room. “Need some muscle?” I say instead.
Aurora doesn’t even look at me. She just tugs the headphones out of her ears and points to the fallen boxes—boxes I know to be extremely heavy, because they all contain homeless books. When she speaks, her voice is grudging.
“Can those live somewhere else for now?” she says, her eyes still determinedly avoiding mine.
Is it so difficult, asking for help?
“Yep,” I say. “They would have been moved later anyway.” I cross to the boxes and stack a few of them, their cardboard edgesand corners unsteady and bulging against the weight. It only takes me a few trips to get all of them out in the hallway, though, and when I go back into the room after the last box has been vacated, I look back at Aurora.
She still looks a little worse for wear.
I cross to the bed and settle myself on the edge, once again keeping my voice casual. “At the risk of overstepping professional boundaries”—she meets my gaze for the first time since I entered, her eyes narrowing, but I go on calmly—“can I offer you some clothing better suited to this work?”
Aurora looks down at her clothes, the armor that accompanied her to battle when she visited Tyler—but she sighs as she brushes her wrinkling skirt and examines the dusty smudges on her shirt. Then, stiffly, she says, “That would be fine. Thank you.”
I’m not sure why this feels like a win to me, but it does. I stand up, nodding. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
As I trail down the hallway toward my room, I hear the sound of resumed cleaning; a few faint spritzes, the bumps and clatters of someone moving around clutter and furniture. Not much digging is required to find something for her in my closet, something that will make her more comfortable while she wages war on that spare bedroom. I return to her a moment or two later with a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.
I may or may not have given her the softest shirt, the one so old and worn that it’s buttery to the touch. It’s not a big deal, though. I just think if I can help her while she’s working for me, it would be rude not to, right?
So I pass her the stack of clothes, and she takes them with a reluctant nod.
