"Thanks," I say, my voice unsteady. "It was honestly my pleasure. It's what made me the man I am today." My eyes stray to the clock on the wall and then back to her. "The good, the bad, the ugly. I'm a better man for it."
A long awkward moment passes between us that makes me both uncomfortable and a bit more attracted to her. She's as socially dysfunctional as I am. I can only look at her and weakly smile.
"Can I mention I'm not the best in these types of situations?” I say. “If I'm being perfectly honest—which hell, after that awkward little moment of silence, why the hell not?—I haven't been on a date, or in a situation like this, in a while. A long while." I can feel heat radiating throughout my body. Dealing with bullets and bombs—no problem. Talking to a woman without the assistance of alcohol and I'm in fucking full panic mode. "So I tend to have a little word vomit from time to time. You'll just have to bear with me."
She laughs, tossing her head back a little, her auburn hair falling down her back. "Trust me, Jax, I suck at conversation in general, much less with a guy like you…" Her eyes widen. "I mean, you know a guy. Just a guy, not like there's anything, uh…" Her gaze drops to my lap, and she flinches. "Yeah… so. How about you just don't worry about my word vomit and I won't worry about yours?"
I laugh, impressed by her candor. "I like the sound of that." My eyes drift again to the clock. The time reads five minutes past when I told Tommy I'd be back, and I can already hear his shit-talking. I pull out my wallet and toss a ten on the counter before stowing my wallet away. "I've gotta get back to work. But I'd like to see you again. I need you to let me know when I can make that happen."
"Okay. Sure."
I can only shake my head and laugh as I stand from the stool. "You and that 'sure.'" I make my way to the door and hold it open for her as she stands from her own stool.
"Fine." She grins as she heads toward me. "I'd love to see you again. I’d be ecstatic."
Pointing at her as she passes through the doorway, I raise my eyebrows. "That's more like it."
Without another word, she turns and makes her way down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of my cruiser. I can't help but feel both confused and intrigued. She doesn't say a word, but I can see a little pep in her step. Maybe I put that there.
I cup a hand to my mouth. "So you'll call me then?" I say with a wide grin.
"Sure,” she responds.
“Devil Side” - Foxes
Janine's singing along to the radio. And she is as tone-deaf as they come. I drive her car along the twisted road through the thick woods. We top a small hill, and Edwin's cabin appears in the distance—along with that shed and his tent set up between it and the house.
Janine laughs. "He actually set up a tent." She shakes her head. "EA, the survivalist."
"Yeah, and let me tell you, I feel weird staying in his house alone."
"Don't." The car rolls to a stop in front of the walkway that leads to the porch. "He'll only stay out there a few days, and when he comes back in, you'll be praying to the baby Lord Jesus for him to go back out there." She laughs at herself. "I promise."
I stare at the tent, my gaze drifting instinctively toward the shed.
"Well"—she pats my shoulder—"you call me if you need anything, alright?"
"Yep." I feign a smile as I open the driver’s door and gracelessly clamber out of her sports car. "Thanks again."
"Don't thank me." She’s already climbed out of the passenger’s side, and her eyes are set on the tent. "Thank him. That spa's not cheap."
My eyes remain trained on his tent, wondering if he's out there or in that shed or gone. The wooden porch steps creak beneath my weight. A crow in a nearby oak caws, its wings fluttering as it takes flight, and I suddenly realize how eerily quiet it is out here. How alone we are. So far away no one would hear me screaming—stop it, Miranda. Stop being so ridiculous.
The door's still unlocked, and it swings open to the empty living room. The late evening sun pours in from the bay window, casting a warm light over the elk head mounted on the fireplace.
What do I do? This is honestly the most awkward situation I have ever found myself in—and for me, that says a lot. He said to make myself at home, but really, who in the hell could do that? The only place I feel somewhat comfortable is my room, and I think that's because I can shut the door and lock it… so that is exactly where I go.
I drag out my new laptop, boot it up, and open the writing program Edwin mentioned. For half an hour, I read over what we've written, surprised at how well our writing styles complement one another. To be honest, I'm not sure who wrote what; it’s almost as if we have the same voice. I guess that’s the perk of obsessing over and dissecting the way someone writes.
I come to the abrupt end of my last chapter, and my fingers hover over the keys, my brain scrambling to get into the right headspace. She's in the room. All the lights are out due to the blizzard. He's somewhere in the house… what would I do if it were me?