And They Told Me I Couldn't Act

TAKE 14

I USED TO be invested in Harry Wolfe, till he'd broken every dream I've had of him down. The truth is, he was a dream. The Golden Boy in my mind, only for me to realise he'd been nothing like I'd dreamed but a person like any other. 

It's hard to see a golden halo when all you smell is a fart.

So I admit, I've been prickly, I've been insistent on pushing away the same way you gently remove yourself from a recently fart-infused area. 

Now - however, things have shifted. Not just the fact that I'm packing my bags to move into his home, but the fact that if he goes down, I go down too. I fake warmth, trying my best to channel a proper southern woman without the accent. "I never move in with just anyone," I tease picking up a cute blouse and putting it in my suitcase.

I can see the surprise and discomfort he has with my sudden warmth. He's standing in the middle of my small apartment, as far as he can from the bed as though I'd tackle him to it. 

I treat his silence as though we're friends, "Is this your first time?"

He glances at the wall art I'd hung, it's of a potted plant. "Yeah, it is. Is it yours?"

"No," I answer, I regret asking him that. The thing about asking someone anything, even if it's in polite conversation is that it'll come back to haunt you. Effective Immediately.

And I don't want to talk about my past.

He nods, still not looking at me, "so," he asks, walking towards the painting, it's not far, just two steps from him, "who was the lucky guy?"

I roll my eyes, "jealous, love?"

Any mention of our relationship is an effective reason to bring a scowl to his face. "Of course not." Then, he glances at me, "Have you packed yet?"

"I think so," I admit. I don't want to leave my apartment, but it's definitely not big enough or secure enough for the two of us.

"Come on," he walks over to the space beside my bed. He's close enough I can feel his body heat, and without even a question he takes my bag from me.

"I can carry it," My voice comes out sharper than I intended. I'm protective over my humble things.

"I've got it." He's a stubborn mule, those farts that linger long after you've sprayed the place down. Actually - scratch that. Harry Wolfe is a little shit. He carries my bag all the way to his car, all but throwing it gracelessly into his booth. 

He doesn't open the door for me, in fact more preoccupied with wearing some Versace sunglasses. 

Just one week, I think as we left my house. Then, by next Saturday, I'd be home again.

★★★★★

It's funny how memories never truly leave you. I'm trying my hardest to focus on the moment, of unpacking my precious belongings into his guestroom, but I thinking about the last time. 

Right before Los Angeles. 

It's unpleasant thoughts that linger in my head, the way the memories you're desperate to forget linger. 

The desperation as I carried the suitcase, the missing dollar bills, the sofa that smells strongly of his aftershave, and his grip on my shoulders as I desperately pushed away. 

I shake my head. I'm in a clean spare bedroom. I'm in Harry Wolfe's guestroom. 

It's just a roommate situation. I can easily avoid him but it won't do anything to help the predicament we're in.