Page 39 of IOU

“Would you like me to repeat myself?”

Uh, no. I don’t think so.

“I’ll be just a minute then.” I try not to sound defeated when I click the door closed, and the smoke alarm quiets. But when I hear the dishes rattle and him cleaning up my mess, I succumb to the ache. Why had I never learned to cook? Why did I rely on Pat, our cook at Studs and Spuds, to leave me a plate every night? Would it have been that difficult for me to YouTube some kind of class?

It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. At least spring break is coming up in the next couple of weeks. I can go home and see my mom and eat about a billion calories. I can sleep in my own bed that hasn’t been tainted with bad memories and affairs.

“You have five minutes,” comes the low voice at my door.

Great, looks like we’re headed back to the fire station. Bostic will not be happy. He’ll for sure think it’s me this time.

I hurry and throw on some leggings and a sweatshirt—no sense in looking fancy while being tossed out of your second apartment in a week.

It’s whatever, though. This too shall pass. I will be stronger than I was before all this happened. I hope.

A few minutes later, I’m packed and standing in an empty living room. “Maverick? I’m ready to go. I’ll come back tomorrow for the rest of my things.”

When he doesn’t clap or answer, I take a look around, noting the clean kitchen and the balcony door cracked. Ahh.

I walk over and peer outside into the dark, noting his tense form sitting in a chair. Rapping softly on the glass, I tell him, “I’m packed and ready. I’ll need to come back tomorrow for my things.”

At first, I think he intends to ignore me, but then I see his arm extend—is that a beer?—and pour the contents of the bottle on the porch.

“Eek!” I hear someone cry from below and then a “Shh,” before the door closes.

See? Even the neighbors know when he’s in a bad mood.

When the bottle is empty, he rises unhurriedly and almost lazily. He takes a sweep of my clothes. “You’re ready?”

I look down at my comfy attire. “Yeah, these are my eviction clothes.”

No smile. No laugh. Not even a comment that I now have designated clothes for evictions. He just brushes past me, tosses his beer in the trash, and grabs his keys. “Come on.”

“Do you really need to escort me out? I promise I will leave. I won’t even camp out in the parking lot. I’ll pick another.”

“Stop talking.”

Oh. Okay. This is serious.

I nod and let a little, tiny, baby sigh go. I think I’m going to miss his couch the most.

“Leave your bag.”

Devil say what? “Uh, I need my bag. I can’t drive without my license, and I need my wallet to get gas so I can sleep—”

“Ainsley!”

I drop my bag. I don’t need it tonight anyway. I can ride on fumes for a while.

“Let’s go.”

Without further objections, I follow Maverick out the door and—

“Get in.”

Is he planning to kill me? Did I really find a new age Ted Bundy? For the love of all that is holy.

A deep sigh bursts from Maverick’s chest while he holds open the passenger door of his car.

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