Credence

He continues, “If you get a boyfriend, you won’t be able to see him once we’re snowed in anyway. Besides, they’re not your type.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m telling you they’re not your type,” he shoots back. “I will let you know when one is.”

What a Neanderthal. For Christ’s sake.

I keep quiet, no desire to argue with him. I’m not looking for a guy, but I can take care of myself. His sons grew up with him in their faces. I’m used to making my own decisions.

“They’re bored,” he tells me. “And when you’re bored, you only want two things, and beer doesn’t last forever.”

So they’re different from other guys my age, how? I know what teenagers are into. I know what men want from women. I’m not a fragile rose petal.

His teeth work my palm, and flutters hit my stomach.

I look up at him, the fact that I now live with three healthy, semi-young males, all of who are also part of the “local guys” he’s warning me about.

“You don’t get bored up here during the winter?” I taunt, dropping my voice to just between us. “When the beer runs out?”

His eyes tighten at the corners, getting my meaning. Are he and his sons any different? Will there be more naked women hanging out around the bathroom?

He finally gets hold of the splinter and pulls it out, but I don’t look away, even as it stings.

He lowers my hand, rubbing his thumb over the small wound.

“It’s fine.” I pull it away, wiping whatever little blood was there.

“Are you sorry you came?” he asks me.

Surprisingly, I’m not taken off guard by the question. Probably because I wouldn’t be scared to be rude if the truth was in the negative.

“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly.

I’m not happy, but I wouldn’t be happy at home or at Brynmor or probably anywhere. I didn’t expect to be happy coming here, so it doesn’t matter.

I look out of the shop, all of the guys revving their engines and turning their bikes around to leave. Noah backs away, obviously not joining them.

“Do you like being here?” Jake presses.

“I don’t know,” I tell him again.

“Where would you rather be?”

I don’t know. Why does he want to know? I don’t…

I finally meet his eyes, chewing the corner of my mouth.

“I don’t want to be…” I trail off, trying to find the words. “I don’t want to be…”

But the sentence comes out sounding complete. Like that’s my answer. I don’t want to be.

His eyes turn guarded as he looks at me.

“I don’t want to be anywhere,” I quickly say.

I might’ve had some misperceptions about what to expect here, but I at least thought three single men wouldn’t desire a lot of touchy-feely conversation. This guy seems to want to connect, and it’s aggravating me.

I turn and start to walk out of the shop, just as the dirt bikes are all speeding away.