Turns out the garden view was a bit of an exaggeration. In my hotel room that evening, I actually have a view of the lumpy parking lot and an above-ground pool collapsing in on itself. The pool is filled to the brim with cloudy, blueish green water. Maybe it’s a bacterial garden.
I turn from the window and inspect the room. Faded floral comforter. Crumbling popcorn ceilings. Cracked linoleum tile. There’s even a handwritten note from the guest who stayed in the room before me: Watch for crickets at night. They’ll getcha. I can’t be sure, but I think there are actual cricket guts smeared on the bottom of the page.
No big deal. It’s 6:45 PM. Sure, I can’t sit on any of the fabric surfaces in the room for fear of bedbugs, but I can prop myself against the wall until I’m tired enough to fall asleep like that. Ooh, or maybe I’ll just go sit on the side of the enameled bathtu—oop, hello there, giant bloodstain pooled around the drain. If you don’t mind, I’ll just be getting my things now.
Lucas Thatcher, you’re about to get yourself a new roommate.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lucas doesn’t seem surprised to see me standing on his doorstep. He has a water bottle filled with ice in one hand, like he was in the middle of filling it up. He’s wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt, and I shiver at the possibilities his waistband hints at.
He steps back and waves me in, like this isn’t the most insane idea ever.
“I was about to go to the gym.”
“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”
“I know why you’re here. That motel is disgusting. I heard they’re weeks away from condemning the whole place.”
“Sounds about right. Now I know why it’s called the lone star—it’s the Yelp rating.”
His loft is massive, with exposed beams on the ceiling and original shiplap walls. It has an open floor plan so the living room and kitchen are all one big space. The light from the sunset streams in through the industrial-sized windows covering the entire back wall of the loft. It’s nice, which throws me for a loop.
I’m still inspecting the place when he takes the duffel bag from my hand and sets it down beside the kitchen island. Then he goes back to filling his water bottle.
I stay right where I am on his welcome mat.
“Hey Lucas, have you heard about that Christmas Eve truce during World War I?”
“When the soldiers on both sides climbed out of their trenches and drunkenly sang Christmas carols and played soccer together?”
I nod. “That’s what this is. The minute I move back home, the war continues.”
He laughs as he approaches and grabs a small gym bag hanging near the door. “It’s not Christmas Eve.”
“I’m just saying, don’t get too comfortable outside your trench.”
“Right. What are you going to do while I’m gone?”
“Probably stand right here, wondering what mistakes have led me to this.”
He looks like he’s going to lean in and kiss my cheek, but he doesn’t. “Well if you ever make it off the welcome mat, make yourself at home.”
Ha.
Home.
Home inside Lucas Thatcher’s loft—what a ridiculous concept. It’s not that I don’t want to be there. For years, I dreamed of stepping foot inside a space that belonged to him, but those dreams usually involved a ski mask and a bottle of Nair. He leaves for the gym and I’m there in his space, unsupervised and free to do anything I please. There’s a stack of his mail on the kitchen counter. I could root through it and throw away his bills, ruin his credit. On his coffee table sits a worn paperback. I could move his bookmark up a few pages, or write spoilers in the margins. His laptop. His DVR. All of it would be so easy to tamper with, but in the end, I stay right on that welcome mat until he returns from the gym.
The door hits me in the back of the head when he walks in.
“Oh shit. Daisy, sorry.”
“Yup. No problem. No, I’m fine. No thanks, not hungry.”
He throws the bag of frozen peas back in the freezer when I refuse it.
“I was kidding about you staying on the welcome mat.”
“You just left.”
“That was 40 minutes ago.”
“Yeah, well. I was about to move. I just didn’t know where I wanted to go yet.”
He walks over and takes me by the shoulders, physically forcing me to step off the mat. I expect the floor to be lava.
“It smells like you,” I announce, “but you just moved in. Do you just spray the entire place when you put your cologne on or something?”
“I don’t smell anything.”
“You wouldn’t.”
He laughs and turns to face me. “I’m going to make dinner. Do you want to sit at the bar or on the couch?”
He has to ask because if he lets go, I will stay right there in the entryway. Frozen.
“Couch, I guess.”