Page 37 of IOU

It takes almost three hours before we have all of Ainsley’s shit packed up and moved into my apartment. Tucker and Taylor had sense enough not to speak as we proceeded to clean out anything that Ainsley thought she paid for. We even took the bread from the pantry.

I thought it was a bit excessive, but it seemed to make Ainsley happy and therefore, would make my night a little less awful.

“You want a sandwich?” she calls from the kitchen.

I look at the time on my computer screen. “It’s seven o’clock.”

She drops the butter knife onto the counter, the clanging sound pulling my gaze from the work I desperately need to get done.

“Are you too good to eat a sandwich for dinner?” Ah, the fire is back. I was wondering how long it would take.

I shut my laptop. “No, I’m not too good, but I don’t typically eat after six.”

Her nose scrunches. “Why? Are you afraid you might get fat?”

Who can I fucking call? Hugh? Would he know how to bribe someone into letting her stay with them?

“I get indigestion if I eat too late, if you must know.” Why? Why am I telling her this? I don’t owe her an explanation. She’s a guest.

“But it’s only seven.”

I let out a deep sigh.

“A sandwich is fine.”

She smiles casually as if she won some internal argument. “Okay. I’ll leave the stuff out for you.”

Rumor has it she tried to burn his apartment down too!

“How’s it going with the new roommate? What did you say her name was again?”

Would it be awful if I didn’t tell Bostic Maverick’s name? Would it be sparing him stress if I said Maverick’s name was Mavis? Right. No more lies.

“Hisname is Maverick,” I admit.

Why am I so tense? It’s not like Boss is my mom, who would be very wary of me moving in with a complete stranger who’s known around the campus as a scary mofo. I’m a grown woman—at times—but definitely not the last few days. Honestly, with the way I’ve been acting—crying and eating all the carbs from Mav’s cabinets—I’m scared he’s going to renege on our deal before he finds me an apartment. He says his guy is “working on it,” and I should not get too comfortable, but then he asks why I haven’t unpacked my shit. He’s a weird one.

Boss hums a non-answer. Does that mean he’s okay with me living with a stranger? If you ask me—which no one is—it’s better to live with a stranger than live in a parking lot.

“Is he a good guy?” he finally asks.

Why is he asking hard questions this morning? I shovel in a fork-full of pancake. “Uh-huh.”

That’s the semi-truth. He hasn’t been entirely awful—at least to me. As for others, I can’t say with certainty.

“Do you have your own room?”

Yes! A question I can answer honestly. “Yes, I do. It’s nice. There’s no puke stains or barred up windows.”

It’s actually really clean with relatively fresh paint, but I haven’t been sleeping in it. Each night, when Maverick finally turns his light out at like two in the freaking morning, I sneak into the living room and curl up on the couch and tiptoe back into my room when the sun peeks through the balcony doors. I know Maverick did a lot for me to have my own bed, but I don’t want it. He was right. Tucker probably did fuck Taylor on it. And even if he didn’t, he probably lay awake at night, next to me, and thought about her.

I know it’s stupid.

I know.

But ever since the survival instinct left me, and I found myself safe with a man everyone fears, the tears flooded my soul, and pain invaded every inch of my heart. I can’t stop it. It’s like waves and waves of memories hit at the worst moments. Moments when I should be showing Maverick that I’m grateful, and I appreciate him leaving a clean towel on the bathroom sink when he finishes showering. It’s like he’s the most hateful, considerate host ever. I don’t want him to think I’m a mess of a person. I might be a mess now, but I haven’t always been.

“So he’s being good to you? You’re okay, I mean?”

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