Blindness(10)

I know he can’t. He has to take this. But bloody hell, I’m living in his parents’ house! What am I going to do? I can’t stop my thoughts from verbalizing, and I speak. “Where am I going to live?” I blurt out.

Trevor just smiles softly and pulls me into a hug. “My parents totally want you to stay. Besides, I’ll come home every few weeks. This way we can see each other a lot. Really, it’s not a problem. We already talked about it. My parents love you, you know?”

His parents love me? I figured they liked me well enough. And that was before the comments I overheard from Jim. I don’t know that they love me. I’m so confused about everything, but I know I’m not going to come to any solutions tonight. I’ll give it a try—I have to. I really have no choice. I comfort myself, albeit barely, knowing that I can start looking for alternatives next week if I need to. I have a little money left from my inheritance, and I can always move back to the dorms. I swallow hard, nod, and smile up at Trevor, who slides his hand around my neck so he can pull me close for another kiss before he turns back to the unfinished dishes.

“You leave Monday?” I say, the sadness of it all setting in. I feel like I’m mourning, and I hate mourning.

“I do. I know, it’s fast,” he says, not turning around. “But I’ll be back two weeks after that, and then a few weeks later. I promise, it’ll all work out.”

“Okay,” I say, closing my eyes and willing the nerves to rest.

“That’s my girl,” he smiles over his shoulder. “You get to meet them all at dinner Sunday. The Sumners? Less pressure, no interviewing,” Trevor winks and gets back to work. I leave him there and head to our room, which suddenly feels an entire world away.

Bigger. Colder. Emptier.





Chapter 3: Second Impressions





Dinner with the Sumners was last week, and Trevor’s been gone for five days now. My head was buzzing just hearing all of the work that was expected of him. I know he can handle it, I just wish I were there for him to come home to at night. He’s been calling me every morning on his way into the city and texting me a few times during the day. He doesn’t get home until late, sometimes ten or eleven, so our conversations are hit or miss.

So far, life at Trevor’s parents’ house hasn’t been nearly as stressful as I thought it would be. Jim left the same day Trevor did, for a long trip to Chicago. And Shelly spends most of her day watching soap operas in the living room, or hiding in her room. The one thing I find that I miss in Trevor’s room is my desk. He just doesn’t have a great drafting space, and maybe I’m just stuck in my ways, but I like the way everything fit on my old desk. Everything had its place, and I knew how to work around the dents.

I’ve measured the trunk of my Honda about 40 different ways, and I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to fit the desk in the back without breaking it in half. I’m about to give up, when I see the back of an old pickup truck hanging halfway out of the Appletons’ garage. It’s a complete mismatch from the rest of the house and the other vehicles that usually line their driveway. I know its Cody’s. I don’t even have to ask. And that’s what’s keeping me in my place.

I lean back, sitting on my bumper, and consider how this might go. I want—no I need—to borrow a truck. And Cody’s the only person I know with one. I’m chewing on my fingernails when I hear the rumble of his engine and see his truck start to back out of the garage. I’m blatantly staring, still considering my approach, as he loops around the circle driveway and stops in front of me. I try to turn away and measure my trunk once more, hoping maybe he’ll ask what I’m doing and give me the opening I need, when I accidentally drop the tape measure under my car.

“You measuring that for a body?” he asks through his window, the growl of his motor slowing down as he idles next to me. I purse my lips in response.

“A desk, not a body,” I say, short again. Why am I so rude to him? “Of course, I’m not measuring anything now that I’ve dropped the tape under my car.”

I bend down and reach under the trunk to see if I can grab it, but in my flustered state, my arm rubs along the exhaust pipe. “Shit! Damn, shit, shit, shit!” I’m screaming, and my eyes are tearing up from the searing pain. I’m spinning around, holding my arm, but afraid to look at it, when suddenly I stop in Cody’s arms.

“Slow down!” he’s shouting at me. Why is he yelling? “Hold still, damn it. You’re burned; let me see it for a sec.”

It’s not his words that stop me, but rather his touch. I won’t admit it to him, but the pain—that seconds ago was killing me—is gone. All I can feel now is the grip of his hands along my arm and the beat of his heart near my shoulder. His breath is hot, his mouth close to my neck.

He’s tugging at my arm now, leading me, and I’m following as if I’m in a trance. He pushes me down on a folding chair in his garage, and finally lets go of my arm. The pain instantly starts to crawl back, and I’m now looking at the four-inch line of puffy redness and blistering along my forearm.

“Got it. Okay, now this is gonna hurt,” he says, kneeling in front of me and reaching for my arm, more gently this time. He looks up into my eyes, which are wide with worry and still in shock. “Charlie, I need you to do me a favor, okay? I’m going to fix this up for you. But I need to put some stuff on here that’s going to hurt like hell. I want you to focus on my face, though; don’t look at your arm, okay? Just look at me, and hold onto my shoulder with your other hand. You squeeze it as hard as you need to.”