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“Yeah. I’m just doing some laundry.” Without thinking through the offer, I add, “You want me to wash any of your clothes?”

Logan starts to turn around, as if his first instinct is to accept the offer and grab some dirty clothes, but he pauses mid-rotation. “You sure?” he asks, eyeing me closely. “It’s not required.”

“I know. But I’m doing laundry anyway, and I don’t mind some extra. These are Deck’s and mine, and they don’t even fill the basket halfway.”

Logan nods, unsmiling as he walks farther back into his room and collects several pieces of his clothing, adding them to my basket. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“No worries. I don’t have any duties today anyway, so I might as well get something useful done.”

When I’ve got the clothes outside, I pick out the best two tubs to use. Then I walk back inside and search the pantryfor some soap and stumble across an old-fashioned washboard.

I’ve never used one before, but people made do with them for centuries. Surely this contraption will get the clothes cleaner than scrubbing them with my hands. I haul that out with an old bottle of dish soap, which is the closest I can find to laundry detergent.

I start on one of my shirts, getting it wet, soaping it up, and then experimenting with the washboard. Whenever I’ve seen one used in historical movies, the person just rubbed the fabric up and down over the ridges of the board. So that’s what I do, trying a few times until it feels like I get it right and surprised by how clean the shirt gets from this method.

I rinse it off in the other tub, wring it out, and then put it back into the empty laundry basket. I’ll need to hang up the wet clothes on the clothesline, but it’s on the other side of the yard, so I’ll wait until I’ve done all the washing first.

It’s harder work than I would have expected, and my back and shoulders are feeling it when I’m on the last couple of pieces—two pairs of Deck’s boxers. I’m so focused on the scrubbing that I don’t notice that someone comes over until a voice says, “Hi, Lilah. Can you do me a huge favor?”

I jerk in surprise and then force my lips into the shape of a smile as I look up at Trisha.

I swear I could have predicted it. She’s giving me her sweetest smile and holding an armful of clothes. I don’t respond. Just wait for her to say it.

“Could you wash my clothes while you’re in the zone? I’d do my own, but my poor leg is too injured. And it’s been so long since they’ve been washed. Pretty please? Logan said it would be okay.”

If Logan said anything of the kind, it would have been that it was okay for her to ask me. There’s no way in the world Logan volunteered me to wash someone else’s laundry. Personal duties are handled personally. That’s one of his rules. He even hesitated before letting me do his own clothes.

He did not tell Trisha I would do her laundry.

I’m tempted to ignore her and start scrubbing again without even giving her an answer, but there’s this tiny twinge of guilt at the back of my mind. That I’m judging her unfairly. That I dislike her for no real reason. That I’ve let all the bitterness simmering inside me get channeled toward her as a target when she’s done nothing to deserve it.

And that a good person wouldn’t act that way.

I’ve always thought of myself as a good person. Despite everything, that’s still who I want to be.

So I nod and look back at Deck’s soapy boxers. “I’ll do them this one time, but after this you’ll have to do your own. With Logan, we all handle our own business. Everyone understands that.”

“I do understand. Believe me. My leg just hurts so bad. I really appreciate your help. You’re the sweetest thing.”

If I needed any confirmation that she’s not being sincere, it’s that final claim. I think I’m decent. And I try tobe brave and generous and helpful. I might even be warm under the right circumstances.

But I’m notsweet.

I’m nothing even close to sweet.

Trisha dumps her pile of dirty stuff into the basket of damp clothes I’ve just cleaned.

I give her a casual “Sure” as I quickly pull her stuff out of the basket and drop it onto the ground. It’s completely irrational—even I can admit that much—but I don’t want her dirty clothes to contaminate my clean ones. Or Deck’s. Or even Logan’s.

She thanks me with a saccharine edge that makes me grit my teeth, and I’m hoping that she’ll leave me alone now. But she doesn’t.

She lowers herself to sit on an overturned terra-cotta planter. It looks like she’s getting ready for a long, juicy chat. I know I’m right when she says, “So tell me about Logan.”

I wring out Deck’s boxers and spread them neatly on top of the pile in the basket. “What about him?”

“Anything. What’s his story? Is he with anyone?”

Of course that’s what she wants to know. His romantic status.

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