“Yes.” My voice is a hoarse whisper, and I feel her shiver when I place my lips on her head. What seems like forever passes before she answers. When she does, her voice is the same whisper, but this time it’s filled with conviction.
“I think I’m falling in love with you.” And just like that, my nameless emotion finally has a name.
I’m wondering why I’m not bolting. I don’t know why I’m laying here and although my heart has swelled, it’s not beating out of my chest. For some reason, her words just feel . . . right. Like I’ve heard her tell me a million times.
Maybe it’s because she said she thinks she is falling in love. Maybe it’s because I don’t really know what love is. Or maybe it’s because I’ve known it all along. If love is accepting me, caring for me, trusting me, and allows me to accept, care for, and trust her, then she loves me.
And then I feel it.
My heart beats heavy against my chest. My head is swimming with ideas of what to do. The word love is pounding in my head. It’s in black and white and written on every surface my eyes land on. Love. Love. Love. Love.
It’s too foreign to me. It’s out of my element. I’ve heard the word because my brothers throw it around all the time. But it’s not the word that bothers me. It’s the emotion.
Saylor is stroking my back. And she is humming. I stay frozen beside her. I don’t want to move and I have to remind myself to breathe. The walls are closing in on me. Then she sings. I don’t know the song. I can’t make out all the words, but her voice is calming and I let it steady my heart, ease my mind, and relax me. She sings the song over and over. I’m not listening to the words, just the melody of her sweet voice. And I’m drifting with her voice in my ears and one question in my mind.
Do I love her?
—
The feel of the hard floor I’m laying on wakes me. My trusty fucking air mattress has leaked to nothing more than a piece of flat material separating me and the dirty boards beneath it. Saylor isn’t beside me, not surprising.
I stretch, my eyes focusing on the yellow-stained ceiling that reminds me of where I am. I take a deep breath through my nose, letting the smell of the house I hate so much reopen my wounds. When the scent fills me, I freeze. It doesn’t smell like old memories. It doesn’t smell like Saylor either. It smells like pine.
I sit up to see Saylor sweeping the floor. She is wearing my earbuds, with my iPod stuck in the pocket of my shirt. And she looks beautiful. She hasn’t noticed me, and whatever song is playing has her in a good mood. I watch her while she nods her head, occasionally singing a line. Her voice is so low, I can’t make out the lyrics, and I’m sure she is doing that to keep from waking me. And she doesn’t want to wake me because she thinks she loves me. Love.
Thoughts of last night resurface and I’m on my feet in search of something that will take them out of my head. She sees me and smiles. I stare at her until I disappear down the hall. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the cloudy mirror, I wonder why I always have to look so damn pissed. I try to relax my face, but I still look pissed. Fuck it.
Saylor is still dancing and singing in the kitchen, not bothered by my facial expression. I guess if it don’t bother her, it shouldn’t bother me. I snatch the earbuds from her ears and she beams up at me. Damn, she’s beautiful.
“What are you doing?” I ask, or growl, or snap. I can’t be fucking normal. I can’t look normal and I can’t speak normal—obviously.
“I’m cleaning.” I look around the room, and the kitchen counters are clean. The walls are clean. The baseboards are clean. The refrigerator looks brand new and the sink is filled with dark brown water. A pine-scented bottle of cleaner sits on the floor. The clean floor.
“Why?” I ask, moving my eyes around the dining room that we are standing in. Everything is clean here too. Even the window. I can actually see out of it.
“Well, if it isn’t obvious enough, this place was a mess. And it smelled funny. Like varmint shit . . . or something. And everything was sticky.” I watch her look around the room, her nose scrunched up and her eyes narrowed at the reminder. When she looks up at me, her face relaxes and her eyes widen. “Shit, baby. I apologize. I shouldn’t have said that.” She called me baby. She didn’t say sorry. “I like your house,” she adds. Her words are genuine and I believe her—not that I gave a shit in the first place.
I like baby, but I think I like her saying my name more than I like the endearment. I like that she apologized, although one wasn’t needed.
“I don’t want you cleaning my house. I never stay here anyway,” I say, ignoring my thoughts and focusing on the topic.