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When his hand slid away, my shoulder went cold. I wanted him to touch
me again, fold me in his arms, tell me how I wasn’t losing my life and
everything I worked for, but gaining space to start fresh.
But it would have turned into more than that. The night before, an
overwhelming passion had landed us on the hood of a car. It was still there,
crackling between us.
The guesthouse was the right choice. Once I moved my stuff in there, it
would be easier. Day by day, we’d cool off.
Then the doorbell rang.
“Are you expecting anyone?” I asked.
His house was open to the street. Any Jehovah’s Witness or political
campaigner could ring the bell.
“No.” He took out his phone and checked the doorbell camera. “Shit.”
I peered at the glass and recognized the man in the backward baseball
cap, bouncing as if the cars passing thrummed a baseline and the birds
tweeted EDM.
“Well,” I said, “are you going to leave him standing there?”
“I’m, like, real sorry, man. It’s just for temps, until I save some cash for a
place.” Colton had both feet on the floor and half an ass on a kitchen stool,
rocking it back and forth on the edges of the legs.