Page 14 of Falling Slowly
“I told you; I have a solution.” He lifted his left hand, and I noticed a boat-shaped bag. He must have grabbed it from his car along with his bag.
“Is that the hammock?”
“Happy Glamper!” Lit from below and glowing pink, his smile looked borderline creepy.
“Where are you even going to attach it? I didn’t see any trees growing inside.”
“I’ll figure out something.”
Fifteen minutes later, I heard the crash. I stood in the bathroom, shower fresh and in my most presentable slacks and tank top, cleaning my teeth, when the entire cabin shook. I rushed out and found Charlie sitting on a pile of fabric that must have been the hammock, staring at pieces of crumbled drywall scattered across the floor.
He looked up and smiled. “Turns out the hook on the wall was… decorative.”
“Oh, my God!” I located the wrought iron hook that had been holding a potted vine in a macramé hanger. The hanging plant lay awkwardly across the floor. I lifted it to safety and started going through the cupboards in search of cleaning equipment.
Charlie stood up, brushing flakes of paint and plaster off his jeans. “I guess we’re not hanging the hammock there. What are you doing?”
“Looking for a vacuum cleaner. Or a dustpan. Anything.” The only thing I found was a small microfiber cloth under the sink.
I returned to the living room, examining the hole in the wall. Too deep. “We can’t paint over that. But if we find some putty, it might work. Maybe there’s a hardware store in that little town… Cozy Creek?”
Charlie blinked at me. “Why would we try to fix that?”
“So they don’t charge us.” I got a small trash bag and started collecting the larger bits off the floor. “I’m sure their room rates don’t cover renovations.”
“They’ll just add it to the bill. It’s fine.”
He detached the other end of the hammock, tied up to the loft baluster, and joined me in cleaning the floor. Well, sort of. After moving some drywall bits with his sock, Charlie started picking them up and flinging them across the room, deep in thought. I wanted to whack him in the face with the cloth.
“Please, Charlie. That makes it harder to clean,” I begged.
“The cleaners will come tomorrow. They’ll take care of it.”
“Why make it harder for them?”
He snatched the cloth from my hand, forcing me to stop. “Come on, Bess. It’s not your mess.” A grin spread across his face. “Hey, that rhymes.”
Your mess is always my mess.
The thought was instant, like a reflex. I’d been living it true for two years, cleaning after him at work like he was some sort of oversized toddler.
Why, Bess?
I sighed, letting my shoulders sag. “Fine. Are you done with the hammock, now? Will you let me sleep on the couch?”
“I’ll take the couch. You take the bed. That’s my final offer.”
“Well, that’s just stupid. You’re a foot taller than me.”
“Which makes my sacrifice greater. One night and I’ll reach martyrdom. There’s a lot of value in that. Undying fame.” He gazed at the ceiling, regally, as if posing for an oil painting.
“I thought you had to die to become a martyr.”
“I told you about the toxic fumes, right?” He winked at me, and my insides wobbled.
It was getting harder and harder to remember who I was dealing with. This wasn’t a random guy I could joke with and make fun of. This was Charlie. I had to return to the office and work with this man—cleaning his messy files and doing his bidding. I’d only spent an hour in his company and my carefully curated act was starting to crack. I needed to get away. I needed a door between us and since that wasn’t possible in this open plan nightmare, I needed that loft all to myself. Why even build a loft if you were not going to put a bed up there?
Something occurred to me. “Wait a minute. We asked the receptionist if this cabin had two rooms, and she mentioned the loft.”
