Page 3 of Married As Puck
Sarah:Crisis meeting tomorrow 8 AM. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t post anything. Don’t leave your apartment.
Too late for that last one.
“I’m not going to a hotel,” I say to the stubborn woman standing in my kitchen. "And I’m not sleeping on my own couch."
“I just said I can’t afford a hotel!” Great, she looks like she’s about to panic. “I’m staying here. I paid rent.”
I glare at her, not inviting her or kicking her out. This isn’t either of our faults, so I do the best that I can and gather my dignity and leave the kitchen.
Despite everything—the suspension, the media circus, the complete implosion of my carefully controlled life—I find myself wondering if having a stranger in my apartment might actually be the least of my problems.
2
He’s walking away. Just like that.
"Unbelievable," I mutter, setting my suitcase down with more force than necessary. The sound echoes through the apartment—myapartment.
I watch his broad shoulders disappear around the corner. I can’t believe he’s so defensive when I’m the one walking into a fully furnished apartment of his things. There’s not one packed box in here.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my texts with Nelly Kane, the property manager. There it is, clear as day:Apartment will be vacant and ready for move-in on October 15th.Today is October 15th. This guy just didn’t hold up his end of the deal.
My jaw clenches as I look around the space. His coffee mug sits on the counter, still warm. His hockey sticks are leaning againstthe wall. There’s a pile of mail on the kitchen island with his name on it—Cameron something.
I should feel bad for him. Maybe he’s going through something, maybe he couldn’t find another place in time. But I’ve been sleeping on Julia’s couch for two weeks while waiting for this day, living out of a suitcase, and I’m done being understanding about other people’s problems.
The apartment is gorgeous with clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that show off Seattle’s skyline. The kitchen has granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances. This is the nicest place I’ve ever had the chance to live in, and I’m not giving it up because some guy couldn’t get his act together.
I drag my suitcase toward what I assume is a bedroom but stop when I hear him on the phone in what must be his room. His voice carries through the thin walls, frustrated and sharp.
"Nelly, it’s Cameron Gray. Call me back. This is urgent."
Poor guy.
I continue down the hallway and push open the door to what I hope is a second bedroom. Relief floods through me—there’s a queen bed, a dresser, and a window that faces west. It’s smaller than what’s probably the master bedroom, but it’s more space than I’ve had in years.
The room is clean, almost sterile. No personal touches, like it was staged for showing apartments. Maybe he was using it as a guest room. Either way, it’s mine now, and I lucked out.
I start unpacking, hanging my few dresses in the empty closet, placing my books on the dresser. Each item I put away feels like staking a claim. By the time I’m finished, the space looks lived-in, comfortable.
From the kitchen comes the sound of cabinet doors slamming. He’s probably taking his frustration out on the furniture, making it known that he’s not happy I’m here. But whatever, I’m hungry too, and I have just as much right to that kitchen as he does.
I find him standing at the stove, back rigid with tension. He’s changed into a gray t-shirt that shows off arms that are definitely the result of serious gym time. When he hears me come in, he glances over his shoulder with the same scowl he’s been wearing since I arrived.
"Find everything you need?" The question is loaded with sarcasm.
"Actually, yes." I open the refrigerator and peer inside. It’s well-stocked—expensive yogurt, fresh vegetables, craft beer. The kind of food budget I dream about. "Mind if I make some dinner?"
He turns around fully now, spatula in hand. "This is still my kitchen. My food."
"Yeah, but I’ve been on the road, and I eat like a mouse. I’ll food for me and take a little plate. How does that sound?" I don’t wait for him to respond. I just pull out ingredients for pasta, arranging them on the counter. "And your lease had ended, right? So technically the food you left in the fridge is mine..."
His jaw tightens as he watches me. He’s either not someone who likes to talk, or he’s too upset.
I fill a pot with water and set it on the burner next to his.
For a moment, he looks like he wants to argue, but then his phone rings. He glances at the caller ID and his expression shifts to something almost vulnerable.
"I have to take this." He steps onto the balcony, closing the glass door behind him.
