Aurora didn’t need to be told twice.Shegrabbed the back end of the mattress, tattooed muscles flexing as she took a deep breath, then gave it a hard shove.
“Now,”Isaid when all six mattresses were piled in the massive dumpster. “Isthere a little white lie you want to clear up?”Icrossed my arms over my chest.
Aurora rolled her eyes. “Goput a shirt on.”
“Why?”Iasked.Iknew why.
“BecauseIcan’t think straight when you’re”—she waved her hand in the general direction of my chest—“like that.”
“Like what,Roar?”Iteased.
She muttered something that sounded like a curse under her breath as she turned her back to me and studied the to-do list.Thefirst quarter or so of the list had been scratched out.
Since she seemed to be perfectly fine pretending thatIdidn’t exist,Idecided to snoop.
I had already poked in the bedroom, where she had been sleeping on the floor.Imade a mental note to pester her until she fessed up about her plans for obtaining a real bed.Therewas no way a grown woman could survive sleeping on the floor for months.
SinceIwas relatively familiar with the living room, the kitchen was next.
I yanked open the vintage fridge to find . . . almost nothing.Therewere a dozen eggs with a few missing from the carton, grape jelly, hotdogs, ketchup, and some carrot sticks and dip.Onthe countertop sat a loaf of sandwich bread, a jar of peanut butter, hotdog buns, bananas, and chips.
Granted, she was just one person, but who could survive on sandwiches and hotdogs?
“Whatever you’re thinking, just keep it in your head.Idon’t want to hear it,” she muttered asIpawed around.Itseemed like most of what she had brought with her were cleaning supplies and a small tool kit.
No personal items.Nothingcomfortable.Nothingfrom her home or past life.Nothingthat told me who she was.
The floorboard letter sat on the kitchen island where she had discarded her laptop instead of hurling it across the room.Thatwas something.Itwas unfolded, like she had been reading it over and over again.
I glanced at her laptop screen, where the blank document from earlier now sported a page number.Asingle ‘1’ at the top, and nothing else.
“What the hell are you doing?” she shrieked as she tossed the to-do list down and snatched the laptop away. “That’sprivate.”
Was she serious?Itwas blank.
“There was nothing on it.Sorry,Ididn’t think it would be a problem.”
“Well, it is,”Auroragrowled as she stomped to the room she was camping in and dumped the laptop on her sleeping bag.
“Whoa,”Isaid, raising my palms as she shoulder-checked me on her way back to the kitchen. “Wannaloop me in?”
“Not particularly,” she hissed as she yanked open the fridge, stared at it—probably hoping for something different to magically appear—then slammed the decades-old door.Thehinges creaked at the force of the push.
“I’ve got someWD-40 over at my place,”Isaid. “Wantme to bring it over for you?”
“No,” she hissed.
I didn’t particularly care for women who played hard to get.Thechase wasn’t my thing.Butsomething about the way her shoulder constantly curled in, like she was waiting for the world to shatter around her, tugged at my heartstrings.
Aurora wasn’t playing hard to get.Shewas wounded.Thatmuch was evident.Likea delicate creature hiding to heal, then lashing out when disturbed.
I glanced at the time.Itwas well past lunch and, after all the mattress throwing, she was probably due for some caloric reinforcements.
“You got plans this afternoon?”
She threw her hands up at the house. “Thisis my plan for the next three months.”
“I’m taking you out to lunch.Beready to go in fifteen.I’mgonna run to my place and shower real quick.”
