There is a light knock at the door that is almost covered up by our laughter. Calling out over Logan, I answer, “Come in.”
The door cracks open just enough for Tucker to show his face. He seems concerned until he looks around and spots Logan. For a brief moment, his brows pinch together in what seems like anger until his face turns into a mask devoid of emotion. Finding me in the sea of books, pizza, and soda cans, he quickly smiles and says, “Uh, just wanted to let you know I’m home. Wasn’t sure if you had dinner, but seems like you did. I’ll let you guys get back to what you’re doing.”
He goes to shut the door when I stop him. “Hey, wait, you don’t have to go right away. We’re taking a break. Come in for a second.”
Looking uneasy, his hand gripping the doorframe tightly, he swings the door open to show off his now filthy work outfit. The once white Henley that clung to his muscles is now decorated in dust and mud. His jeans seem to have the same collection of muck on them, and the boots he wore this morning are nowhere to be seen and neither are his socks. There he is, standing in dirty, form-fitting clothes, bare feet, and that is doing things to my insides I haven’t experienced in a long time.
They’re just bare feet, Emma, get ahold of yourself.
But . . .
There is something to be said about a man in jeans, wearing nothing on his feet. Why is it so hot? Why does it make me want to take my bra off and throw it at him, only to attempt my very own helicopter with my breasts? Titty-copter on the loose!
Clearing my throat, trying to rid the image of me flapping my tits around in Tucker’s face, I say, “You remember Logan, right?”
Tucker nods at Logan and says, “Yeah, what’s up, man?”
“Not much.” Like the nice guy Logan is, he holds the pizza box up and asks, “Would you like a slice?”
That’s my pizza he’s offering, but I’ll let it slide since it’s Tucker.
“I’m good. I, uh, I have a peanut butter sandwich calling my name.”
Well, that’s sad. I should have thought ahead and asked Tucker if he wanted to join us for dinner. Now I feel like an asshole.
“I’m sorry. I should have text you we were going to have pizza.”
He waves me off. “Nah, you do your thing, Emma. You don’t have to worry about me.” He inhales a deep breath and takes one last look at my room and taps the doorway. “All right, I’ll let you two get back to the books. I’m heading upstairs for the night. See you later. Logan, good to see you, man.”
“You too.”
Tucker shuts the door, leaving me once again with Logan but this time, it feels awkward. I’m not used to accounting for another person since Adalyn was always doing her own thing when we lived together. I never even thought about asking Tucker if he wanted to join us. Such a dick move.
Twisting my hands in my lap, I say, “God, I feel bad. I should have called or text him about dinner.”
“He doesn’t seem torn up about it,” Logan answers, now flipping through the book in front of him.
“You’re a guy, you don’t notice things like I do.”
“Hey, I’m perceptive,” Logan replies.
I stare at the door, wondering what’s going through Tucker’s mind, why he briefly had a look of anger in his eyes. Was he mad I invited Logan over without his permission? Is that something I need to do? Ask for permission to have someone over to his house? I never even considered it.
Shit.
I know he said we’re adults and are decent human beings who don’t need roommate rules, but I feel like I need a basic outline of the rules for his house, especially since he’s letting me live here for a dollar a month. I want to make sure that if I can’t pay Tucker for giving me a place to live, that I’m at least making sure I’m not making him uncomfortable.
Chapter Eight
TUCKER
I don’t like him. Nope. Not one fucking bit.
Logan.
What a . . .
Fuck, I can’t call him a douche because he really hasn’t been a douche. I can’t call him an asshole because it doesn’t seem like he possess asshole type-qualities nor does he seem like a dickhead, asshat, scrotum face, or tool bag. But there is something, something I don’t like about him. I can’t fucking place it, but I will.
No, Logan, I don’t want your fucking leftover pizza. And hey, who fucking wears a polo shirt to study? And your laugh? Fucking irritating.
I wish I could have worn earphones while showering because I kept hearing his deep chuckle come from Emma’s room and with every laugh my skin crawled. What the fuck is so funny about studying? It’s nursing shit; nothing should be funny about nursing shit. I don’t want my nurse laughing while tending to me. All his laughter tells me is he’s going to be one fucked-up male version of Nurse Ratched at this rate.
Congrats, buddy. You belong in a psycho-thriller with Jack Nicholson.
Shaking thoughts of Logan out of my mind, I remove my towel, letting the rest of my body air dry as I pick out a pair of boxer briefs and some comfy sweatpants. Standing naked in my room, I run both hands through my hair and stare down at my peanut butter sandwich. The same thing I have almost every night if I’m not full from Little Debbie snacks, but this time, it makes me feel more pathetic than usual.
She has company. She has her own fucking life. I realized this after a few days of living with her. This isn’t a surprise, and yet, when I was driving home, for some fucked-up reason, I kept thinking about what we could have for dinner. The thought of not being lonely at night appealed to me.
When I pulled into my driveway and saw a car parked by the front yard, I knew Emma wasn’t alone. And I shouldn’t fucking care. I don’t have claim on her, she’s living in my house for a few months. That’s it.
But breakfast has been . . . fuck. It’s been nice to not be alone. To not sit in an empty house, the echoing of my every movement filling in the silence, reminding me of the shitty way my life has turned out. But tonight I made a mistake. I got ahead of myself. I pumped myself up for dinner, not eating alone, when I know I shouldn’t have.
Christ.
She’s here until she graduates. That’s it. Not to fill the empty void of my house. Of my life. She’s not . . . she’s not someone who will ever fill the gaping hole of Sadie’s spurning.