“Ruthless,” she scoffs.
“I’m the mean twin, remember?” I smile at her, it's genuine, and it feels weird on my face.
“Seriously though, who calls you that?” She steps forward a little, and it takes everything in me not to meet her step for step, but I stay totally still. “I’ll beat them up,” she offers.
“You think I can’t take care of myself?” I feign offence.
“I never said that!” She stumbles over her words, and the martini sloshes around in her glass. “Shit,” she swears and brings it back to her lips to down a little more of it.
“Careful.” I reach out and straighten the glass in her hand as she panics to keep it steady. “Messy,” I huff under my breath. My hand brushes against hers, and she stills instantly, her breathing shallow and loud in the quiet space.
“Hey, Brighton?” she whispers, and I don’t correct her this time because it seems no matter how many times I tell her, she just is incapable of only saying Bright. She sets down her glass, and I can tell she’s dancing around asking me something as she plays with the rings on her fingers.
“Yes?” I respond after she goes quiet.
“I know you have a spare room and—”
“Nope,” I cut her off quickly to keep her from even thinking I’ll entertain it.
“Please? I’m sleeping on Sunday’s couch, and I can’t do it anymore! She’s the size of an American girl doll, and my back is screaming!” She instantly enters begging territory, and it makes it increasingly hard to deny her what she wants. “I promise I’m a good roommate, I’m clean, I’ll buy my own food. I’ll do my own laundry and help around the apartment!” She steps forward out of instinct, and I don’t flinch away from her because I like the closeness; it’s soft and volatile. Even thinking about letting her sleep in my apartment is a bad,badidea. There’s a list of reasons explaining why, but all I can think about is how sad and desperate she looks.
If she says please again, all bets are off.
“Please.”
Shit.
“Under one condition,” I break like a cheap piece of wood the second it leaves her lips. She nods, listening, “You start calling me Bright.”
Rhea starts to laugh wildly. It’s loud and full of more life than I’ve ever heard. When she stops, her cheeks are red, and she’s so close to me I can smell the espresso on her breath.
“Deal.”
The sheets smell like Brighton.
The sheets smell like Brighton. Shit.
I pry one eye open and pray I’m not forgetting something, but I’m in bed, and it’s empty. It takes a second to remember that I’d finally convinced Brighton to let me rent his spare room and that last night I insisted on staying despite only having my rugby duffel with me. I just needed one good night of sleep, and considering I woke up forgetting what time zone I was in, I can say it’s a success.
I slip out of bed and double-check the living room before sneaking over to the bathroom and running the water. It’s a good size for an apartment, but plain. Bright, white and clean. I peer up at the shower head and grin. It’s high on the wall; unlike at Sunday’s, where it’s made for short people and turns cold the second I step under it. Living with Sunday is never an issue; the problem is that her house is not made for a six-foot-tall woman. It’s like moving around in a doll's house.
Before getting in, I dig around and find a towel in the closet behind the door. Everything in the closet is organized by bottle, labeled in clear boxes, and folded perfectly. “God, he really is the Terminator," I whisper, grabbing the towel and hanging it up. The water is so warm, and before long, I’m standing beneath the stream, proud of myself for begging Brighton long enough that he cracked. Working at the Hollow, I’m privy to different sides of him I didn’t see before, ones I either ignored or was too drunk to care about.
But he’s really a sweet guy, softer than I was imagining him being. It’s obvious that he’s still pretty apprehensive about having me rent the apartment room, but I’d prove to him that I could be a good roommate this week, and then he’d have no choice but to let me stay until my condo is livable.
I realize instantly that I’m lacking just about everything I need to get ready for work and curse myself for being weak last night at the promise of a bed. Every tiny upset is a further reminder that I just want to be home in my own space. I step out of the shower, dig around until I find toothpaste, and use my finger to brush my teeth as best I can before slipping back into my pajamas and hanging the towel on the hook.
There’s a brush in my bag and a change of clothes, so I start to make a list in my head of what I need to do before work, but when I open the bathroom door, my thoughts are derailed. Brighton is in the kitchen, much like I found him the first night, but this time he’s properly clothed.
“Oh, so you do own shirts,” I say, turning off the bathroom light.
He shakes his head with a huff, but doesn’t turn to look at me as I pad across the cold apartment floor on bare feet. I notice at the end of the island is a fresh mug of coffee, and before I can ask, he points to it without pausing what he’s doing at the counter. I take it between my fingers and inhale the smell before lifting it to my lips for a sip. My eyes follow him as he grabs a couple of containers from the fridge, and from my position at the counter, I can see just how organized he is. Everything inside has a place and a label, just like the bathroom. This may be a terrible idea after all.Confirmed, I’m bunking with the Terminator.
“What are you doing?” I ask finally, just trying to break the silence. It’s not that it’s awkward or tense; I just have a hard time sitting in silence, no matter the situation or the people involved.
“Making lunch for Daisy,” he says after a moment.
“Wow, Sunday never made me lunch.” I groan playfully and drink more of the coffee. Brighton looks over his shoulder at me as he shoves food into her little lunch bag.
