“You can stay with me,” Ethan says. “I have an extra room.”
I absolutely cannot picture Ethan snorting coke and attacking me. It’s an impossible thought. He wants me to like him too badly. But maybe my instincts are shit. Maybe that’s the thing I’ve learned about myself.
“You guys are really nice. I just can’t put anyone out that much.” I take another messy bite of salad. I need to shovel it in and get gone before they melt me.
“You’d be doing him a favor, I think,” Robert says. He grabs Ethan’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze.
“My boyfriend moved out last week.” Ethan sighs. “Ex-boyfriend. It’s possible that I’m not so great at living alone.”
Robert laughs. “That’s an understatement. This man is lonely.”
“Hey,” Ethan says. “I bring ice cream.”
“And stay on my couch watching sad movies all night.”
“See, April,” Ethan says, “you’d be doing Robert a really big favor.”
My head aches like someone is tightening a band across my temples. It’s more than ten hours back to Anna Maria Island. I can’t spare motel money on the way. It’s not a route I know well enough to have notes on campgrounds and truck stops recorded in my notebook. And I’m lonely too.
“I can’t pay room and board right now,” I say.
“I don’t need a roommate,” Ethan tells me. His eyes have pinwheels of grey mixed in the blue. “I need the house to feel less empty.”
“I do take up space,” I say, and the tightness in my shoulders starts to give a little. Just for tonight. It’s only bending the rules, not breaking them. I will leave in the morning, before Ethan wakes up, with a full night’s sleep and maybe some aspirin.
“Do you cook?” Ethan asks, like I’ve agreed to a long-term arrangement.
“No.”
“Neither do I. Ivan was an excellent cook.”
Robert clears his throat.
“Not as good as you,” Ethan says, “but you never cook for me.”
“What do you call this?”
“I mean at home.” Ethan pats my arm. “Robert lives next door.”
“If I stay, you better come over and cook for us,” I say. It’s a reflex. Pretend we’re already good friends, in the middle of things. It’s the way I get what I need.
“He will,” Ethan says, beaming, and I decide I may as well play through.
— Chapter 43 —
Ethan’s house is small and old and adorable. The floors are slightly crooked—just enough to throw me off balance, like it could be me, not the house, that’s askew. Every window has a glass ball, wind chime, or dreamcatcher hanging in it. The curtains are yellow linen and the air smells like sandalwood and aftershave.
“It’s all yours,” Ethan says, opening the door to a tiny room with a white metal daybed and a patchwork quilt. There are paint stains on the floor and a big roll of white canvas in the corner. “Sorry it’s not cleaned up. It was Ivan’s studio. Mine’s on the sun porch.”
“Better than my car.”
“You really sleep in your car?” He looks like he’s worried for me. Touches his hand to his mouth and sighs.
“Sometimes,” I say.
“Our little bag lady has a bed.”
I can tell he likes the idea that he’s rescued me. It’s okay to let him believe he has. People can do so many horrible things to make themselves feel important, so if he feels important from being kind, he’s better than most. “Thanks, Ethan,” I say. “This is nice.”
“Do you think you’ll stay for a while?” He grabs the top of the doorframe and hangs on with both hands over his head.
“I don’t know,” I say. I’m still not sure what I’m doing. I’m too tired to keep mucking around on my own forever, but this is ridiculous. You don’t just move in with a guy you met on the street.
“I come off as needy, don’t I?” He swings on his arm and smiles.
“Sort of,” I say, smiling back, because the way he asked felt like when someone wants to know if they have spinach in their teeth.
“I guess I am needy. Ivan just left and I’m pulling girls off the street to keep me company. I’ll get better. It’ll get better.” There’s something fragile about him that breaks my heart—he can’t cover it up—he’s broken and leaking and he knows that about himself, and here he is trying anyway.