Page 31 of IOU

“Just ignore the screen saver. It was a dare, and I don’t know how to change it back,” she mutters, her nose pinking just a little on the tip as she places it in my palm. She’s embarrassed. Huh.

I lower my gaze to her phone, and a picture of a sea lion stares back at me. I almost grin. Bullshit, she doesn’t know how to change it. This picture is edited with a filter, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s not from the internet. The background has our local aquarium’s logo behind the smiling sea animal.

“Cute,” I muse, scrolling through her pictures, noting hundreds of images of her and a guy. Must be the ex-boyfriend. I click on one of her and him pushed together in the bed. Wait. “This was our waiter last night.” God, what was his name? Thomas?

“Yeah. He’s Taylor’s and my boss.”

“Who the fuck is Taylor?” Why are there so many T names in her life?

She fidgets with a tweed bracelet on her wrist. “My ex-roommate.” She says it like a question. “It’s why I was in such a bad mood when, you know ...”

When she tossed food in my lap.

“Ah. Will you be looking for a new job too?” The patrons need one of them to quit. Had I been someone else, I would have had her fired.

“I mean, I would like to, but there aren’t many openings around here, and I refuse to be a stripper, not that I’m judging the women who are. I just don’t have that kind of confidence in my body.”

Good Lord. I take it back. She has eight hours and then she’s out of here.

“It’ll be fine,” she says, waving off my doubt. “Things will blow over, and I’ll be fine. It isn’t like I’m heartbroken over it.”

Famous last words.

It’s midnight, and I’ve read the same set of numbers four times now, and I’m no closer to digesting what they mean to Braylon’s portfolio than I was fifteen minutes ago. The same fifteen minutes before she came home from work and threw herself down on the sofa face first. I hadn’t even cared at the time. It wasn’t my business to ask how her day was or to offer her a nightcap. I simply nodded, locked the door behind her, and went to my room.

But then the sniffling started.

“Ahh!” I hear her muted cry through the closed door.

I don’t know who she thinks she’s fooling, but she’s not masking that horrific squall of pain. It sounds like a coyote screeching into my throw pillows while attempting to guzzle a beer. Exactly, it’s not pleasant.

Another whimper.

Fuck!

I’m not getting involved. I’m merely fulfilling a favor by letting her have a place to stay tonight. And possibly tomorrow. So far, my attempts to find her a roommate have failed. For some reason, this girl has pissed some people off. Enough people that I’ll have to use a favor just to get her out of my apartment and off my sofa. Granted, I’m intrigued. I admire someone who can ruffle a few feathers at this university, but I am not for all this crying. I don’t do nursing someone’s mental well-being.

I’m not her friend.

This is a deal.

It’s as simple as that.

“Do it, Ainsley. Do it! Press the button!”

Oh, God. Is she talking to the remote? I have neighbors, for God’s sake—ones that I want to keep fearing me. I can’t have them thinking I’m running a slumber party over here.

Sighing, I pluck the unlit cigarette from my lips and set it down. I need something to drink anyway. On my way to the kitchen, I will pass by and give her a once-over. If she’s drunk, and indeed talking to the remote, I will come back, turn on some music for my nosy neighbors, and put my headphones on to drown out the rest of this crazy night.

I can do that.

It’s not like I’m really checking on her. I’m just ensuring she won’t destroy the remote or lash out at any of my shit. I’m protecting my assets and my lease agreement. The deposit wasn’t that much, but I’d prefer not to lose it.

I throw on a shirt and head out into the hall, where the whimpering becomes more apparent. She’s not just sniffling now. She’s holding back some massive sobs.

This isn’t my thing. I don’t do crying women.

The last time I witnessed a woman cry was when my mother found out she had MS. Her sobs are still burned in my memory. I wasn’t equipped to deal with it back then, and I certainly am not equipped to deal with it now. Crying girls are not in my wheelhouse.

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