“What if I don’t want to?” I say, pushing, hoping for a real answer.
“Goddamn, I don’t give a fuck. Do what the hell you want, that’s what you’re gonna do anyway.”
I laugh and snort. “Says the guy hiding in a shack in the woods because his girlfriend wanted different dick.”
“You want to trade lives, be my guest,” he says, and as he hangs up, I throw my phone against the wall. It leaves a dent in the drywall but Eden can consider that the start of how I’m going to pay him back for this bullshit.
Back in the living room I rifle through my suitcase until I find my toiletries bag and beach towel. Then I wash the last twenty-four hours off of me with one of the mini bottles of shampoo I took with me from Sunrise Kingdom.
I smell way too strongly of frangipanis when I get out but I feel clean, and that means, regardless of whether I visit Teken Ink, I need to go to town. Because I’m not sleeping on that dusty old futon again without sheets.
I put on a chocolate brown pair of baggy chords, my black Chucks, and a stripe knit sweater, then venture back into Eden’s room. Bypassing the pile of flannels still strewn across the floor, I head to the closet. One at a time, I push the jackets aside onthe pole until I settle on an oversized black bomber with orange lining.
I grab my backpack, skateboard, and—surprisingly unbroken—phone, and slam the apartment door.
Outside, the ever looming winter fog still hasn't cleared enough for the sun to shine properly through. But at least it’s not raining, and thank Christ the snow hasn’t started yet.
With my backpack on, I push off the sidewalk and skate towards the town center.
Broadrock looks smaller than I remember. Most of the ride is street after street of houses, the mountains getting further away behind me as I fly nearer to the coast until abruptly I’m at Main Street. And it feels like every person in town is here, right now, with me.
Out of courtesy, I step to the side and strap my board to my backpack before getting my bearings.
I hit the general store first. Watersons’ is Broadrock’s excuse for a Walmart—or I guess, Fred Meyer, in this part of the country—at one-tenth the size and zero percent of the feigned hospitality.
“I need a chair and table,” I tell the old man behind the counter when I enter. He gives me the once over and points me towards the camping supplies.
“All we’ve got are fold-ups,” he calls after me.
“That’s perfect,” I say, grabbing the cheapest camp chair and a kid-sized card table with cartoon fish printed on the plastic. I consider buying a knife and other cutlery, but decide I’ll just keep whatever comes with my takeout tonight for the time being.
I gather some body wash, a sleeve of solo cups, and a double-sized sheet set, and make my way to the register.
“Oh. A blanket. Or a quilt. I didn’t see any with the sheets,” I say to the old man.
“Last row. End of the aisle.” He jerks his head without looking at me and pushes up out of his chair with a groan.
I tell him thanks and jog to the back of the store.
The selection is slim and I end up choosing one of those soft minky ones people use as sofa throws because if Eden is going to leave me to my own devices, then he can also pay for me to keep the apartment warm enough that I don’t need anything else.
I strap the rolled up blanket to my backpack on top of my board, and stuff everything but the chair and table inside it.
“You got a car, son?”
“No,” I answer as the old man slides the table towards me. “I’ll just carry them.”
He quirks an eyebrow and looks me over again. “I haven’t seen you around.”
I take the table and camping chair and put them under my arm like I carry my surfboard. “That’s because I haven’t lived here in years.”
“So what brings you back?”
“Is this how you question all visitors?”
“Those aren’t visitor’s supplies.” He gestures to my haul. “Are you squatting somewhere?”
“Excuse me?” I half snort, half laugh. “If I was gonna live somewhere illegally, I’d choose a better place than Broadrock.”
