“That couch looks like it fights back.”
“It does. Keeps a man humble.”
“I can sleep there.”
“No.”
Her shoulders tense.
I catch it this time before Sophie has to kick me.
I exhale through my nose. “I mean, I’d rather you and the kid take the bedroom. Door locks. Window faces the back. You’ll have privacy. Couch is in the living room, which puts me between you and the front door. Makes more sense.”
She studies me.
I can tell she wants to argue. Not because she wants the couch. Because accepting the bedroom feels like accepting care, and accepting care feels like a trap if enough people have used kindness as bait.
“It has a lock?” she asks.
“Bedroom door? Yeah.”
“Inside?”
“Yes.”
“Does it work?”
“Yes.”
She nods once.
I don’t make a thing of it.
Sophie notices that I don’t make a thing of it and looks proud, which irritates me more than criticism.
August wanders toward the hallway. “Can I see?”
Amelia starts after him, but I get there first, not to stop him, just to push open the bedroom door so nothing catches him by surprise.
My room is cleaner than the rest of the house.
That probably says more than I want it to.
The bed is made because I spent too long as a prospect getting my ass chewed for sloppy bunks. Dark quilt. Plain sheets. A dresser. A nightstand with a lamp, a knife, and a paperback western I have been pretending to read for six months. Boots lined along one wall. A safe in the closet. No pictures. No extra pillows. Nothing soft except the bed, and even that looks like a place to crash, not rest.
Then I spy a pair of panties on the floor. A thong from my last overnight guest. Don’t remember her name. I rush over to kick it under the bed. Not before Amelia notices.
“I see you’ve been assaulted by panties before.”
“None as big and fearsome as yours.”
August marches in and looks around. “Where are your toys?”
“I’m grown.”
“That’s sad,” he says again.
“I’m starting to feel judged.”