Oh God, he’s right. But I am not going to validate that. No way does he need to know what my living arrangements currently are.
Grief got the best of me today, but it won’t kill me too.
He comes to a stop out the front of my small home, which is my pride and joy. I bought this by myself, and with my own money. Reaching for the door of his truck, I turn back to look at him, his eyes are covered by those glasses, and one hand is firmly on the steering wheel.
“Laters,” I say, sliding out and shutting the door.
He doesn’t drive off when I walk down my driveway to my front door, which I find a little creepy, but continue on anyway.
I love everything about my home. It’s a sandstone brick home, with floor to ceiling windows along the front. A small veranda juts out from the front, and on the porch is an outdoor seating area with a glass table and two lush chairs. I like to sit out here and read when the sun shines in the morning, with a coffee in hand. The house has three bedrooms and an open plan living area.
As I reach the door, I unlock it. Glancing over my shoulder, I see he’s still there watching me.
It’s definitely creepy, that stare he has going on.
Just because he’s beautiful doesn’t mean I should have trusted him.
What an idiot I am.
Locking the door and sliding the chain firmly in place, I wait to hear if his truck leaves. It takes a few minutes, but eventually he drives off.
I head to the window to look out, and the breath I was holding finally escapes me in a sigh of relief.
“You have to go to work,” my mother says the next day when she comes over to visit.
“Not today.”
And I don’t.
I don’t want to.
“Today is the day. Are you ready?” my mother’s voice chimes into the phone.
It’s my grandparents’ funeral today, and I have to remember my heart can take it. That my life still goes on, with or without them in it.
“I’m pulling up now. Goodbye, Mother.” Turning left, I drive into the crematorium parking lot—behind it is where the funeral will take place. I park in the same spot he was parked in the last time I was here. When I look around, I don’t see his truck.
He didn’t come to murder me, so maybe he isn’t as bad as I had assumed. Walking out the back, I spot all of my family who is gathered and ready for the service to start. My mother wraps a hand around my shoulders and holds me to her. I sometimes forget that even though I was their granddaughter, she was their daughter. And her hurt is probably as great, if not more, than mine.
The service is beautiful, everything you’d expect from a loving family, and maybe even more. My mother grips me to her the entire time, and I do everything in me to not break down as I have been the last few nights as I fall asleep, with my eyes covered in saltwater and unable to see. My pain is now only seen in my sleep, no one else will witness it.
“Honey, how you holding up?” My father pulls me from my mother’s tight grip and pats my back. Then he pulls back and pushes my sunglasses down so he can see my eyes. I know what he sees—heavy dark eyes that are withholding tears.
“I’ll be okay.”
“I know you will.”
I push away after the service, waving goodbye as I head back to my car. When I do, I see him there again—he’s walking out with his bag over his shoulder, and his truck is parked directly next to mine.
“You carry bodies with you every day?” I joke.
He stops, turns, and I know his eyes are narrowing in on me. “You’re back. You’re either stupid or—”
“Or?”
He shakes his head then continues to walk.
I unlock my car, reach for the door, then pause. “Want to go for a drink?” I ask, not looking his way.
“Are you dumb?” he asks, as I turn around to see him now standing in front of me, the bag no longer thrust over his shoulder. He’s dressed much like he was the day before.
“Pardon?”
He reaches up, taps my head. “Does this have a brain?”
“Well—”
“Did your mother ever teach you not to take rides from strangers?”
“Well, yes. But I met you yesterday,” I say.
“What’s my name?”
I bite my lip. Damn! I don’t know, but I don’t because I never bothered to keep asking after the first try.
“Rochelle…” My aunty calls me, and I turn my head to glance over my shoulder, but then look back to him.
“Come for a drink, please?” My voice is desperate.
“Meet me at Johnny’s in thirty.” He slides into his truck as my aunty gets closer, then he drives off. Johnny’s is in the heart of town, so it’s a short drive to meet him.
“Who was that man?”
I don’t answer, simply offer her a smile before I get into my car and drive away.
Heading straight to Johnny’s, I don’t detour or stop. I want to know more about this man.
Taking my black jacket off, my singlet, which is multi-colored, sits nicely with my black pants and boots. Walking in, I order myself a drink and sit by myself at the bar.
“One of those days?” the bartender asks, handing me my gin and tonic.
“One of those weeks,” I whine while rolling my eyes. “Better make me another. I don’t plan to walk out of here anytime soon.” The bartender smiles, and for some reason it makes me smile back. He’s younger than me, probably early twenties, and I can see in his face that he doesn’t know hurt. Hurt is such an awful thing to carry around with you day after day.
“Here you go, beautiful.” Handing me a drink, the bartender walks over and turns on the jukebox, winks, and goes back behind the bar. There are only a few other people in the room, and most are too involved in conversation, they don’t even care about the music playing in the background.
My phone starts ringing, and without even looking at it, I know it’s my parents wondering where I am. They’re having a function after the funeral, and Lord knows I do not want to attend that.
“You should answer that, they will want to know where you are.” The stool next to me slides out and he sits.
Who is he, though? A stranger who has danger written all over him. A stranger I’m highly attracted to and can’t seem to stay away from. Even when I know I should. His hazel eyes stare at me, waiting for me to answer.
“I’ll message them.” And I do exactly that. I message my mother, telling her I’m not going to make it. I leave it at that, with no further explanation. Sliding my cell back into my bag, the bartender walks over, but when he does, he doesn’t hold that soft smile he gave me before. Instead, his lips form a thin line.
“What can I get you?”
My stranger’s fingers tap on the bar. “Water,” is all he says, which in turn, surprises me.
“You aren’t going to drink with me?”
“Why am I here?” he asks.
I bite my lip and look down.
“Do you not have any friends?”
Lifting my drink to my lips, I hiccup before taking a sip. “Yes, but—”
“But what? You want to fuck?”
I almost choke on the liquid that was in my mouth as I turn to face him.