He throws his hands into the air as if in mock surrender.
“Sorry, sorry. I was just taking in all the book titles. Seeing if there was anything I’ve read.” He smirks as he backs out, insincerity dripping from his voice.
Since most of the books in there are of the bodice ripping variety, I highly doubt he has.
“Well then, if you like to read, you’re in for a treat. Here’s where you’ll be. It also doubles as my office, but if you give me a few, I’ll get all my work crap out of the way.”
I pull my door shut again and open the one to the spare room. The bed is another queen, with a dark blue bedspread. The dresser is pushed into the closet, and every spare scrap of wall space is taken up by shelving and bookcases. At last count there were almost a thousand books in here, the paperbacks stacked ten high and three deep in one bookcase.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, and I take a moment to preen under his shocked expression.
“I check Facebook and Craigslist for bookstores or libraries that are going out of business. One day I drove six hours to get to one but came home with hundreds of hardbacks shoved into my car. I give away any duplicates I get. Either to schools or libraries around the city.”
“Wow,” he says. “Very impressive.”
I follow him into the room, heading toward the desk that holds my computer, but he pulls me to a stop with his hand on my arm.
“You don’t need to move your office stuff. I can sleep on the couch. It’s not a problem.”
I do a double take when he says that.
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. That’s why I have a spare room. For guests. You,” I say as I emphasize the word by poking him in the chest, “are a guest. It’s not normally a problem, because I have a chance to clear all my crap out before they get here. I can work from my bedroom.”
Derrick squares his shoulders, folding his arms across his chest.
“I am not a guest. I’m a squatter, at worst. At best, I’m a weird sort of family member, maybe a third cousin twice removed, who shows up unannounced and expects you to cook for them. Seriously Cobra, you shouldn’t rearrange your life just to accommodate me.”
I giggle at the thought of him being a squatter, because, honestly, the description isn’t that far off the mark.
“We’ll call a truce, for now. I don’t have to be signed in for work again until Monday. They closed operations to give everyone a chance to get situated with the new arrangements. We can take up the discussion again this weekend. I’ll go grab your suitcase.”
I turn tail and run before he has a chance to put up any more of a fight. Not that we can’t hold a conversation between the living room and the spare bedroom. The whole house is less than 900 sq. feet. But he was raised with enough manners to know when not to push his host, and I’ve obviously reached that limit.
I take a minute to center myself and readjust to the person who was just thrust upon me.
When I drag his suitcase into the room, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt partially unbuttoned and pulled from his dress slacks. Caught with his guard down, the stress of the past couple of hours shows clear as day on his face.
“Thanks Cobra,” he says, running his fingers roughly through his hair. “I really appreciate you taking me in. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without you.”
The desire to comfort him is strong, but I wrap my arms around myself instead.
“No problem, Derrick. Take a load off, and I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”
Before I do anything stupid, like hug him, I leave the room, closing the door behind me.
*****
He’s out less than twenty minutes later. The work clothes are gone, replaced with jeans, a plain shirt, and a pair of sneakers in one hand. He seems transformed, by more than just his clothes. Where a few minutes ago he was tired and worn out, now there’s a bounce in his step.
“Show me this to-do list I’ve heard so much about.”
I doubletake at his words, surprised that he even remembers that.
“How about you sit back and watch some tv or something instead. I have Hulu, Netflix—everything, really. You’ve had a hard day. My to-do list is not your concern.”
He looks up at me through his eyelashes, bent over his knees lacing up his converse.
“Nope. Jack told me to put a dent in the list, so that’s what I’ll do. Besides, I spent seven hours in a plane this morning. I like to burn some energy on days I fly, to counteract all the sitting. My dad is a contractor, remember? Taught me all he knows. No offense, but this place could use a little TLC.”
I try, and fail, not to take any offense at his words. The house is falling apart. But I love it anyway. It has exposed beams, and walls with wood paneling. This home was built in the 50’s, and it’s my goal to restore it to its former glory.
“I know. The couple I bought it from leased it out to college students, and college students aren’t known for taking good care of their places. In turn, the owners didn’t put a lot of money into it. I mean, why waste the funds, right? When the next person would just destroy it again.
“I rented it during my last two years of school. It’s away from campus, but not so far the commute was terrible. It’s in a good neighborhood. When school was over, I asked if I could stay, and they let me. I bought it from them two years ago, when the wife was diagnosed with cancer, and they decided to tour the world before...” My voice trails off, unable to complete the sentence. They were good to me. I still get a Christmas card from Mr. Penchou every year. I miss his wife’s cookies.
“No. I understand. It’s sentimental to you.” I nod, swallowing the swell of emotion that snuck up my throat. I continue after I clear my throat.
“Jack’s right. I do have a fixer upper list a mile long. Big things, like the porch.” Derrick smirks at that. It’s drooping on one side. Jack’s slight OCD has strong emotions about my front porch. So strong that he comes in through the back of the house. “And little things like painting, and buying a counter refinishing box from Lowes.”
He gives me a skeptical look. “Counter refurbishing is a little thing?”
“It comes in a box,” I say with annoyance. “How hard could it be?”
All he does is laugh at me.
Pushing up from my position on the couch, I motion for Derrick to follow me out of the house and to the shed off to the side of the carport.
This is one of those properties that used to house a dozen old broken-down cars, with tractor parts scattered all over the yard. The Penchous owned ten acres around the property, but by the time I bought it from them, they were down to an acre and a half. If you walk through my backyard and the two hundred feet of trees behind that, you’ll find a subdivision where their property line used to be. You can also see the remains of old houses that used to be here and were trashed when newer versions were raised. This land has been in use since the revolution.
The house is old enough that it doesn’t have an attached garage, but to make up for it has three different storage sheds. This one is closest to the house and has electricity and the back-up generator.
My family may hate the fact I live in such a rural area, but the last time the modern neighborhoods around here lost power for three days, I was still able to stream Netflix.