Page 88 of Wilde's End
I expect him to ask about that, but he doesn’t. Wilde slowly pushes his jeans off and throws them through one of the open doorways. “My favorite pair,” he mutters. “Figures.”
“Buy some new ones.”
“City boy …” he throws back, but there’s no bite behind it for once. “Most people around here know how to sew. Someone will patch them up for me. Just gotta work on getting the blood out of them first.”
“Shouldn’t you do that now, then?”
“Probably, but it will have to wait until morning.” He grimaces as he eases down on the edge of his couch. “Driving took it out of me.”
“I told you I could drive.”
“And I told youno.”
“But you were happy to let me take your truck …” I try to figure out the difference. “So, it’s not your truck you’re protective of … it’s yourself?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“I don’t trust anyone else to drive. Now, drop it.”
I drop it, even though I really, really don’t want to. I’m slowly collecting pieces of Wilde that I didn’t know existed, and one day, I’m convinced I’ll have enough to make a whole picture. His lack of trust, the way he hated me drawing attention to his beard, but he shaved anyway. And I know why he shaved. Because I said I hated his beard. So he did something to impress me without wanting me to be impressed.
If I stand around for much longer, I’m going to keep pushing him for answers, which is a fast way to be shown the door. He’s given me way more already than he normally does, and I get the feeling that where Wilde is involved, I have to be patient. So I leave him behind and follow his jeans into the other room. Iautomatically hit the light switch, even though I’m not expecting anything to happen, and when the small light overhead flickers on, I stare at it.
“You haveelectricity?” I shout.
Wilde grunts, which I’m assuming means yes. This is perfect. All this time, I thought there was nothing up this way, and they’ve been living comfortably while we’ve been suffering through cold showers or driving into Wayward and booking a motel room just to get clean.
That asshole.
I swipe his jeans off the floor in a huff and glance around the small room. There’s a toilet, a basin, and a washing machine in here, but that’s it.
“Where’s your shower?” I ask. “Bath? Whatever.”
“Outside.”
Of course it is. I sling his jeans over the basin, grab the soap, and set to work getting as much of the blood out as possible. Probably should have left these things with Booker since I have a suspicion he would have loved this job.
“What are you doing?” he calls out, like he can’t help himself.
I lean around the doorframe to meet his confused expression. “Washing out this blood before it sets. Can’t let it ruin your favorite jeans.” Him having a favorite pair of jeans is weird. It’s not something I expected, and Wilde having an attachment to anything makes me even more curious about him. He doesn’t have a lot of stuff, so I’d assumed things were worthless to him, but that’s obviously not the case.
I’m getting the feeling that whatever I broke wasn’t on the same level as some old windows.
I shut off the water when it runs clear and then sling the jeans over the edge to dry. They’ll do for now.
I wash my hands before heading back out, and instead ofsettling him in and leaving, I join him on the couch. “What did I break when I was here the last time?”
Silence stretches, and I know that I have to give him time to fight over answering me. It’s a personal question, and Wilde isn’t a personal man. “A pot. Vase. Thing.”
“You don’t even know what it was?”
“It doesn’t matter what it was. Gracie made it as a gift for me. I don’t get gifts often.”
“Who’s Gracie?” I ask, picturing some leggy mountain lady.
Wilde must pick up on something in my tone because he laughs. “She’s a child. One of the few who live here.” He leans back against the couch, and after a second, I mirror him.
