“Hey,” he greets me, muting the TV he’s watching. He sets the remote down on the large trunk in front of the couch, which he uses as a coffee table, I’m assuming, then lifts his head from the cushion and begins to sit up.
“No, don’t. I got it,” I tell him, nudging the door shut with my hip. I step into the living room with my suitcases. “Just direct me where to go. I don’t have that much to bring in.”
CJ looks like he wants to argue with me after glancing at my suitcases, but drops his head back down instead and stays where he is. “Down the hallway, last bedroom on the right is yours,” he says.
“Cool.” I give him a smile. “Nice place. Very Daryl Dixon,” I tell him as I pad around the couch and head down the hallway.
“Who?” he calls out.
My brow furrows.
Who?
“Walking Dead. The show. You don’t watch it?” I yell, stepping inside the bedroom at the end of the hallway and setting my suitcases beside the bed. I lift my duffle bag off from around my neck and set that down as well, then I drop my head from side to side, stretching with my hands on my hips. I take a look around the room.
The bed is big, king-sized by the looks of it. And the room is fully furnished with a large dresser and two nightstands, both of which have framed pictures on them and a few books, along with some spare change, crumbled up dollar bills, and a pocket knife. As if someone emptied their pockets and placed the contents in this room, which would be strange . . .
Isn’t this the spare bedroom? Why wouldn’t CJ empty his pockets where he sleeps?
I exit the room and start to make my way back toward the living area, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I stop at the next bedroom door halfway down the hallway and push it open. I peer inside.
This bedroom is smaller, not just the room size but also the bed. It can’t be bigger than a full. The paint job is unfinished—one and a half walls a grey-blue color, and the rest is still that builder’s grade off-white. The only other furnishings in the room are a weight bench and a rack of dumbbells. That’s it.
No nightstand. No dresser. The bed doesn’t even have a comforter on it. There’s just a sheet and one pillow.
What the hell?
“You said last bedroom on the right, right?” I ask CJ, coming to a stop behind the couch and looking down at him.
He turns his head, dragging his eyes off the TV, and peers up at me. “That’s what I said.”
“You sleep in the bedroom with the weights?”
“Yeah.”
“That tiny bed. You sleep in that?”
“Wouldn’t say it’s tiny, but yeah,” he says, bending his arm and propping his head on his hand.
I bring my hands to my hips. “CJ.”
He smiles behind the scruff I’m used to seeing on him. He’s shaved since he left the hospital. He looks good.
CJ scruff is really good scruff.
“Yeah, darlin’?”
His voice draws my eyes up. I connect with his.
Darlin’.
There he goes again.
My gaze narrows. “Am I sleeping in your bed? Did you give me the master bedroom?”
He stares up at me, doing nothing but smiling.
Oh, my God . . .
“You did, didn’t you?”
Still, he doesn’t answer. Holding that smile for another breath, CJ finally turns his head and resumes watching the TV, informing me, “Technically both beds are mine. The room I got you in is bigger, yeah, but it’s not the master bedroom. I sleep in that.”
“The master bedroom is the smaller one that looks more like a workout room than a bedroom?” I ask, doing this while leaning over the couch. I watch the corner of his mouth twitch.
I knew it. He’s got me set up in the master.
That thoughtful jerk.
“Yep,” he answers, lies hiding behind that charm.
Exhaling heavily, I rock back onto my heels and shake my head. “Just so you know, I don’t believe you. But I don’t have time to keep arguing. I have other stuff to bring inside.”
“Anything heavy?” he asks.
“Not really,” I answer before moving with purpose toward the door.
“Oh, shit!” I cry out, slamming the box I’m carrying against the wall after barely making it inside. I ease it slowly to the floor, heart racing and breathing erratic. “Oh, my God,” I pant. “That was so close. My laptop is in there.”
I think I would’ve cried if I would’ve broken that.
“The fuck?”
“It’s fine. I got it,” I tell CJ, turning my head and watching over my shoulder as he gets up from the couch. “Don’t! You shouldn’t be on your feet.”
He grabs his crutch and starts hobbling toward me. “Babe, hate to tell you, but I’m not about to sit on my ass and watch you struggle bringing stuff in,” he says. “I wasn’t raised like that.”
God. He really is a . . .
My thoughts cut out as I watch CJ stumble after the foot of his crutch gets stuck on the throw rug. He puts weight on his injured leg.
I gasp.
“Fuck!” CJ roars, tossing the crutch, sending it sailing across the room toward the kitchen and then bending over to hold onto the armrest. He grits his teeth and hisses through them, dropping his blood-red face.
I leave the box on the floor and rush over. “It’s okay. I got it. Really,” I say, ducking under his arm and draping it over my shoulder. I help him straighten up, holding onto his wrist and wrapping my other hand around his waist. “Come on. Let’s get you back on the couch.”
He hesitates, but eventually lets me support him and hops a step.
“I could’ve managed myself. I just needed a minute,” he grumbles.
“But I’m here. It’s better if I help you.” Stopping at the middle cushion, I lift my head and look up at CJ. He’s smiling down at me.
I could say something snarky, or tease how he’ll probably be stumbling more often to get this close to me again, but I don’t.
“Thank you for wanting to help me though,” I tell him, watching his grin soften. “That’s really nice of you.”
“Nothing nice about it. It’s the right thing to do,” he argues, stating that matter-of-factly.
I blink up at him, thinking about the day I moved into Richard’s house and how he told me helping him carry things in would help move this shit along, and how when he saw me struggling with a box as heavy as the one I just carried inside, he laughed and said I needed to lift with my knees. That was the only help he offered that day.
My eyes fall to a spot on CJ’s shirt.
“You all right?” he asks me.
No. Not at all, I think, but I don’t tell him that.
I force a smile and give it to him. “Yep,” I lie. “Come on. Back on the couch you go.”
I get CJ re-situated on his back, boosting his ankle up with a pillow and handing him the remote, then I empty out the box a couple of items at a time and carry them to the master bedroom.
The bedroom I’ll be sleeping in.
Later that night after a quick dinner of sandwiches and chips—CJ had lunchmeat that needed to be eaten and not much else in his refrigerator or cabinets, leaving us with little choice that didn’t include takeout—I slip on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, handle my bathroom routine, secure my hair up into messy bun, and climb into bed.