The Co-op

Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

L A RYNN

I catch myself muttering in French, a string of expletives that would’ve made even my curse-happy grandmother threaten me with soap. But I’ve also been looking for an extension cord in the garage for the last three fucking hours.

I can feel myself spiraling through the same points and feelings, my metaphorical heels digging into the hill I’m apparently choosing to die on right now. But I got my area set up. I gave him back his stupid couch. I even found a refrigerator with same-day delivery.

I can’t cook to save my life, but I spent the remaining money in my personal account on groceries—snagging things that would make easy meals. Mostly just boxed pastas and jarred sauces, but still. I started a separate account for the trust money that he’ll have access to as well.

I set out with a positive attitude—planned to be the bigger, unaffected person in this. Look at me, I’m ready to tackle this with maturity and consideration, and I am an excellent, contributing member of this team. I am completely indifferent to the fact that once upon a time I gave you my body over and over (and over) again and then served up my heart on a platter, plated with accoutrements and expert-level presentation, before you promptly threw it in the trash. All good, bro.

But no, first, he forgets about the bed delivery. I’d thought about texting him, but the idea of needing anything from him is agonizing enough in the first place. Having to ask for more and make myself even needier feels insurmountable. And then, after he fucking leaves me hanging, he comes home and belittles me, throws a full-blown, man-sized fit. And fine, perhaps I went the tiniest bit overboard with some of the comfort items. But I figured it was all stuff I’d be able to use to help stage the place when it’s time to rent it out, and, like I told him, we could at least be comfortable in the meantime. I tried to be considerate of him, too. To make sure I got things he would also use. What a stupid fucking idea, me here trying to make him comfortable. Like suddenly someone like me would have any idea how to make a cozy home where anyone would want to stay. I have no fucking clue what that entails, and this all just proves it.

Maybe I’ll draw the outline of a middle finger using my hair on the shower wall, I think. Put the toilet paper roll on backward. Maybe I’ll go spend another grand on bobby pins and a leaf blower and spread them across his entire half of the floor, Rambo-style.

It’s a step above where my head originally went, so maybe I’ll come down soon. I’d paced and stomped around after he left earlier, unable to calm, growing angrier and angrier until I worked myself up into this fit. Threw myself into the bathroom in my rebellion, grabbed his toothbrush and pumped the air in glee before I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet. I was about to scrub it good and hard because fuck him, that’s why, but this is also when my reflection and I made eye contact in the mirror. I looked at her and she at me—she of the bloodshot eyes and the mouth set in a hard line. I put his toothbrush back where it belongs and decided to try putting myself to bed, over in my newly assembled quarters.

Which is also when I realized that there isn’t a reachable outlet to charge my phone.

I need the alarm on my phone to go off so I can wake up on the (especially early) mornings I’m scheduled to open up the shop. I may not have used them since getting here, but I typically like to have a meditation app to wind down or sleep noises to play at night, too, but I also need it to be within arm’s reach so I can turn it off whenever I do manage to unwind. I just—I need something to go right. I can’t tell if this is panic at feeling helpless or just blind fucking rage.

All I know is that I refuse to move all that shit again or admit further defeat, and I also refuse to bother Sal, especially now when it’s past 1 A.M . There has got to be an extension cord somewhere in this goddamn shitting place.

I tear into a box full of records, but I pull too hard and they slip out, clattering to the ground. “Merde!” I hiss before I start picking up the pieces of a broken one.

The Drifters. I drag another container over to sag down onto, the plastic bottom chafing against the cement floor.

The sight of that album calls up the sound of my grandmother’s voice. “Under the Boardwalk” ringing behind her words as she said to me, “When you have a bad day, ma fille, think about it from beginning to end. Walk your way through it. Was it really a bad day, or was it a few bad moments? What part of your day would you like to hold on to before you close your eyes? Find that good bit, and let it be the thing you fall asleep to.”

Her pieces of advice carried me through so many lonely, dark days, and at the thought of her, my chest feels instantly tight. Like my heart is wrapped in thorns and vines, like too deep a breath would leave me punctured all over. I inhale shallowly through my nose and try to follow her words again as I close my eyes, try to walk myself through the fight and sort through the melee of my thoughts.

The garage shrieks open, though, startling me right back out of my head. I feel like a rat caught in a sticky trap, frozen in the moonlight that silhouettes what can only be Deacon’s looming figure.

“I got you something” is his chosen greeting.

Huh? “Why?” Guilt burns up my throat like acid reflux.

“’s a bike.”

Oh lovely, he’s drunk. “Again, why ?”

“To get places. Like work.”

“Work is like, one block away.”

“There’s a steep”— hiccup— “hill.”

“As opposed to the lesser known, flat hill?”

“Dammit, LaRynn, d’ya want the bike or not?!” The “not” comes out as a fluid “nhwat” and I hate that I like it.

“That depends. Did you steal it?!”

Hiccup. “Did not steal it.”

“Then where’d you get a bike at one A.M. ?”

“ Obviously, I ac—ac. Ac —quired it earlier in the day.” Hiccup .

“‘Acquired’ is a specifically vague term.”

“I’ve had some drinks, but I think that’s ”—he points a finger at me—“an oxymoron.” The triumphant look on his face should not be cute. Flushed cheeks, the flash of straight white teeth against sweat-beaded skin from the warm night. It is not cute.

“Big man know big word, huh?”

“A few. I’m more than just a pretty face, you know.” And I hate that I do know. The summer we were together I’d find books tucked under the seats in his car. Everything from litfics to westerns and even some bodice rippers I recognized from the grands’ collection. I’d felt a little jealous of how much he enjoyed reading and learning, actually. The ease with which he could collect fictional stories as well as the ones happening around him. After the brewery the other week and seeing him with his regular pickup games and all his insider knowledge, I guess that’s still the case for him. His eyes turn into something pained. “But you do make me feel like I’ve got rocks for brains sometimes,” he says.

“How so?” I ask.

“Just.” He rolls his hands around the air and makes a sound that I think is supposed to imitate crashing boulders. “And hard.” He shrugs helplessly and we both laugh.

We stare at one another, his eyes hooked onto mine despite the slight swaying of his body.

“Could we—could we talk in th’morning?” he asks, expression grooving itself into a frown.

I nod.

He walks forward, but stops when he’s in line with me, his damp arm brushing against mine, and I stiffen. His head tilts slightly with an inhale before he lets out the same breath, ghosting against my neck. I wish he smelled like stale beer or something that’d make my lip curl. Instead, he smells like some sort of whiskey. Smoke from a campfire with something sweet and dark and him. Intoxicating on his own.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice a low, grating rumble that tugs at something deep inside me. Fuck him for that, too. For having so much pull over me, for making me feel so out of control. From the flashing anger and heat of earlier tonight to the melancholy and longing I feel now. I want to reach for him so badly my palms ache, want to dig my fingertips into his broad back and feel his chest against mine, want to steal his warmth to stave off the cold, desperate grief clawing at my heels. I want him to reach for me, too, and bury his face in my neck.

“I’m sorry, too,” I say. He looks down his shoulder at me and I look back up mine at him. “I’ll say it again in the morning.”

“I will, too,” he tells me, before he walks away.

When I get upstairs after giving up on the cord search, Deacon is breathing deeply in my cot, holding one pillow with another tucked between his knees. I discreetly rip off the $94.99 tag before I go flop down in his bed and plug my phone into his charger.

I’m asleep within seconds.