From one perspective, that was scary.
From another… it was empowering.
Either way, I couldn’t just watch her sleep all day, no matter how much I really wanted to. Reluctantly, I nudged her awake.
“C’mon, sleepyhead. Time to get up.”
Clara looked up at me groggily, stifling a yawn. As she slowly came to, alertness gripped her.
“Wait – Dalton? Where am I?”
“My bed,” I replied with amusement.
“What? I fell asleep here? What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, growing slightly annoyed now. “My phone’s on the charger. Why, is something wrong?”
Clara rolled onto her back and fished her phone out of her pocket. Flicking it on, the time blared brightly into the room, temporarily distorting my vision.
“Hey, could you give me a little warning next time, love?” I asked with aggravation, shielding my eyes with a hand.
“Oh fuck, I was supposed to pick my work shifts last night!” She grumbled loudly. “Great. I completely fucking forgot about that, and now all the good ones are taken… I can’t believe this happened…”
“Clara, look, it’s not a big deal,” I muttered. “Just pick them later. You want to grab a bite to eat or something?”
She jumped up from my bed, grabbing her keys and wallet up off the floor. “I’ve gotta get going,” my guest unceremoniously muttered as an afterthought.
Before I could respond, she was darting out the door and down the hallway.
Well, that’s fucking great, I growled inwardly.
I wasn’t going to let her bullshit cloud up my day, so I climbed up and locked the front door, noticing that her car wasn’t out front. Wow, she left in a REAL hurry there, I bitterly thought to myself. Traipsing back towards my room, I swiftly made my bed before turning on the faucet and stepping into the piping-hot shower.
What the fuck was THAT all about?
I wasn’t a fan of taking long showers. By the time I’d rinsed the traces of oil and grease out of my hair, scrubbed my entire body down, and begun toweling off, I was still plenty furious with her. The wound was fresh, but it was also irritating that I’d let her damage my typically bulletproof ego.
There was no getting around it: Clara’s sudden departure had rattled my cage more than I’d anticipated. But when I threw on some jeans and a casual tee and lifted my phone up off the charger, I noticed a text from her.
> Sorry to leave so quickly. Work stuff. Had a good time with you.
“Work stuff,” I murmured to myself angrily. “Well, no shit, Sherlock. I still think that could have probably waited…”
I tossed the phone onto my couch and started picking up after Pete. While I was questioning why I let him stay with me for free, I scooped up the forgotten bag of potato crisps, the half-empty can of Rockstar, and the dishes he’d left on my coffee table.
At least his mess is always centralized, I thought to myself. If he’d been one of those people to make a disaster zone of the entire house, I’d have him out on his ass faster than you can say Semper Fi.
Focusing on his bullshit took my mind off of Clara, and when I finally wiped my hands clean and started wondering about her again, I realized that my subconscious had done that little trick with problem solving.
You know how, when you’ve got a problem, and you distract yourself with something else for a little while, when you come back to the problem it’s sort of worked itself out?
Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.
My gut reaction had been to just ignore her for a few days, intentionally this time. Put her on the defensive. She knew she’d fucked up, given the apologetic text she’d sent.
But I reminded myself: time isn’t on your side.
That’s why I sauntered back over to my phone, snatching it up off the couch as I flicked the living room set on. I queued up some mindless drivel from my personal list of saved shows for some background noise as I contemplated how to word my response:
> Not gonna lie, it kinda pissed me off.
It was a bit of a gamble, but I remembered how she felt about learning that my grandfather was on the way out. A few minutes later, her response came through:
> I know. I’m really sorry. I think I just freaked out over waking up with you. Is there any way that I can make it up to you?
I smiled to myself slyly, although the longer I thought about her message, the less confident I grew in my intended response.
Throwing caution to the wind, I typed:
> I want you to meet me again tonight. But you’re going to have to be okay with us. There’s no telling how soon our parents will take things to the next level, and I want one solid night with you. I want both of us to ignore them, ignore the future, and just share one awesome night together.
I hesitantly hit send, and let the phone clatter to the couch. That was one hell of a dice roll that I was taking on her, and I knew that, in all likelihood, I was just shoving away my only chance at something with her before she got the news…
When she didn’t respond, I dedicated my time to some history homework. Being in school was useful as a distraction, and a little more engaging than sitting in front of the screen and slowly losing muscle mass.
It was after I knocked out my assignment that I noticed that she’d responded. Although my phone had been off of vibrate, I must have missed the ring of the notification.
> Okay.
Relief flooded my veins.
Okay? I thought to myself, letting a triumphant grin crawl across my face. Oh, I can DEFINITELY work with ‘Okay.’
With victory growling out from my throat, I thrust a punch into the air. The hard part was over… and now I just had to set the mood for the evening.
You only get one shot at this, I told myself. Hell, Father or Sarah might ring her up and break the news beforehand, anyway…
I brushed the thought aside.
Well, if that happens… then it happens, I shrugged. There was no point in focusing on that right now, not with this opportunity bared out before me.
I didn’t want to come off too strongly, so I paused for a little while and collected my thoughts. I took stock of the house and realized bitterly: This place is a fucking pigsty.
Luckily, Clara hadn’t spent much time out of my bedroom while we’d been together, and she’d darted straight out when she’d left.
I’m going to have to have a word with that guest of mine, I thought to myself with vexation. After I’d made up my mind about my afternoon, I whipped my phone back out and fired off a reply.
> Cool. See you tonight. 7ish?
A few minutes later, she replied:
> Sure thing. I’ll text you later so that we can figure out the details. See you then.
With that groundwork laid, I focused my attention back on cleaning up the mess that had become my rental house. He’d only been around a collective several days out of the last month, but he’d been surprisingly present the last couple in a row.
I got to work, putting my military cleaning regiments to good use. Arming myself with bleach, disinfectant, rubber gloves, and some solid washrags, I gave my house the entire drill from top to bottom: sweeping, dusting, mopping, vacuuming, scrubbing, polishing, soaking, buffing…
It ate up a couple of hours, but the place had never been any cleaner. Although I was a little lax for someone who had once scrubbed floors with toothbrushes, I still expected – nay, demanded – clean surfaces and minimal dust. Still, it was funny to me that it took the combination of a grimy guest and a cute girl to properly kick my ass into gear on the home cleanliness front.
After a brief break in front of the television with a well-earned cup of tea, I noticed my phone ringing to the side.
It was Clara.
I wasn’t really feeling a phone call, so I let it ring to voicemail. Whatever it was, she could either leave a message, or just text me.
When it rang again, I filled with dread. Somet
hing’s wrong, I thought to myself as I hesitantly answered the phone.
“Clara?”
“Dalton, we, uh, need to talk…”
I didn’t like the fearful tone of her voice.
“Oh yeah? Is something the matter?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. By the time she responded, I already knew what she was going to say.
“So… apparently, our parents are engaged.”