Where You'll Find Me (5 page)

He pauses. “You know more about me than you think.”

“I know you live in my garage. That’s it.”

“Oh, come on. You can do better than that.” He pushes away from the wall so he’s facing me, creating space between our shoulders and making me cold. The bags of vegetables fall from his hands, but he doesn’t pick them up. “Try harder. What else do you know about me?”

As I study him, I think I might be more of a “tough guy” girl than I realized. But this is about him, not me. “Your name is Nate.”

He rolls his eyes. “Cheap. I told you that. Try again.”

With a dramatic sigh, I keep staring and try again. “You cut your hair recently. Buzzed, or maybe even shaved completely.”

This time, he nods. “There you go. Keep going.”

“Your hair makes me think you used to look different. That you had to change your look as a way to get away from whatever put you in my garage. Right?”

He smiles, revealing that crooked front tooth. “These are your observations, not mine.”

“Fine.” His eyes are the source of my next observation. “You don’t wear contacts. You’re hurting right now, because your eyes aren’t as bright as they normally are.” It’s a struggle, but I force my gaze away from his eyes, down to his chin. “Even though you seem to be homeless, you must have someplace to shower and clean up, because you shaved.”

He rubs a hand over his smooth chin. “Good one.”

“You never had braces as a kid, or maybe your front tooth was punched crooked.”

At this, he laughs and flicks his tongue at that front tooth. It’s way sexier than such a small action has any right to be. “Maybe.”

“Even if it was punched crooked, you know how to defend yourself.” My gaze travels away from his hands, toward his coat. “You were prepared to live in a garage. You knew you were going to need a warm, heavy jacket even though it’s not fashionable.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” he says, still smiling.

“You’re welcome,” I deadpan. A bit of his gray hoodie catches my attention. “You have a Michigan State University hoodie, which tells me that not only are you an unfortunate Spartans fan, but you’re also probably from Michigan. You’ve been here a while because you know about my family, and the guy at the face lotion kiosk recognized you.

“Everything you need in this world fits into that backpack, because I’ve never seen you without it and I’ve never seen you with anything else. You must have someplace where you can do laundry, because you don’t stink, even though you have the same clothes on every time I see you.”

At this, Nate holds up a hand to interrupt. “Just so you know, I do shower and change my boxers every day. And I do have another pair of jeans that I wear when I’m washing these.” He nods to the backpack.

“Okay, so you’re a clean and well-laundered homeless guy. Good to know.”

He grins. “I thought so. Continue.”

I nod, but I’m running out of observations. His jeans and shoes make me hesitate before drawing the next conclusion. “You have money. You wear brand-name clothes that I doubt they give away at homeless shelters. You’re smart, because finding yourself a decent place to stay without getting caught can’t be easy. You’re not afraid of doing things that are illegal, but at the same time, you’re kind and considerate. You’re kind of a walking bag of contradictions. I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to think about you.”

His smile reaches all the way to his eyes, giving them some of their brightness back. “See? You know a lot more about me than you thought.”

“Maybe. But there’s a lot I don’t know about you, too.” My ring spins loosely around my thumb in the cold. “You’ve still got secrets.”

His smile falters, then falls. He stares into my eyes, and I don’t look away. “You know what I think about you, Hanley?” He leans forward, the inches between us disappearing one by one.

My voice barely makes it above a whisper. “What?”

He tips his head to the side. When he speaks, warm breath brushes against my cheek. “I think you’ve got just as many secrets as I do.”

Chapter Eight

“You want to take a shower?” I ask as I lead Nate toward the bathroom. As soon as my parents left for work and Heather left for her babysitting job, I’d headed out to the garage and invited Nate inside. The blankets I took out to him last night probably did little more than take the edge off the cold.

“You’ve got hot water, right?” he asks.

“Lots of it.” In the bathroom, I remove a pink towel and washcloth from the cupboard.

“Cute,” he says, looking around at the too-pink décor.

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” I pull back the shower curtain. The salmon-colored shower curtain. With ruffles.

He shakes his head. “You need a brother.”

“No kidding. Okay, the water goes from zero to scalding in three seconds flat, so don’t burn yourself. There’s soap and shampoo. Need anything else?”

“Nope.” He sets his ever-present backpack on the ground, removes his jacket, and reaches past me. When his arm brushes against mine, I get a rush equivalent to riding a roller coaster. He turns on the water. In the shower. Where he will soon be very naked. In my house. In the room right next to mine.

I clear my throat and force myself to take a step back. “Yell if you need anything.”

Nate closes the door, and I head to my bedroom, trying very hard not to think about what’s happening on the other side of that door. Or kind of trying, at least. I make a half-assed attempt at picking up dirty laundry, throwing away old magazines, and stacking school stuff in a corner. When I’m finished, the room is still far from clean, but it’s as presentable as it’s going to get.

The faucet squeaks as Nate turns off the water. I flop onto my unmade bed and don’t think about Nate wrapping one of the towels that I’ve used a hundred times around his waist. The thought doesn’t even cross my mind. Not once. On TV, the Travel Channel is showcasing some tropical island that looks like paradise compared to the snow-covered ground outside my window.

It would look even better with a towel-wrapped Nate standing on its shores.

As the camera pans across a waterfall too perfect to be real, Nate steps out of the bathroom. He sets his backpack on the ground and enters my room. The plain white T-shirt he’s wearing is damp in a few places. It’s more revealing than his sweatshirt and jacket. It makes it easy to see how he was able to win the fight: muscles. Lots of them. The jeans he’s wearing add to my attraction. They’re darker and tighter than the other pair. Not that I’m paying close attention or anything. Not at all. “How was the shower?”

“Warm.” He looks around my bedroom but doesn’t make any comments, sarcastic or otherwise. When he sees the bulletin board near my bed, he takes a few steps closer to examine the pictures.

It feels like he’s studying me instead of the wall. Like he’ll see something in those pictures the same way he saw something in the grade school pictures downstairs. I fidget with a loose thread on my comforter. “How are your hands?”

He pulls his gaze away from the bulletin board. “Much better than last night, thanks to you.” When he makes and releases fists, the motions aren’t smooth, but it seems like he’s in less pain than he was in last night. “How’s my face look?”

There’s some bruising around his eyes, and he’s a little swollen, but not bad. It’s sexier than I want it to be. “Badass.” The word “dangerous” also crosses my mind, along with a thought of the other person in the fight. A potentially innocent person who might be in even worse shape than Nate this morning.

He laughs. “See? You’ve got a thing for tough guys.”

I push the negative thoughts out of my mind. “Yeah, whatever,” I say, even though he’s right.

“But I gotta tell you,” he says as he holds his arm up to his nose and sniffs. “I’m not feeling tough or even like a guy right now. Are you aware that the only soap you have in the shower is some fruity crap?”

“Let me see.” I lean forward, and he holds his arm out in my direction. The distinct scent of cucumber melon is evident. It’s absurdly sexy. “Aw, you smell nice. Sweet.”

He pulls his arm away. “Good thing I’m secure in my masculinity.”

“Good thing,” I echo with a smile. My gaze drifts to the TV where a commercial advertising a local restaurant is playing. “Are you hungry?”

“I can be. Are you?”

Breakfast is not usually a thing I do. On school days, I run so late that I’m lucky if I remember to grab a banana or a granola bar on my way out the door. On weekends, I’m not awake early enough for breakfast, or even lunch. “Sure.” I click off the TV and follow Nate out of my bedroom.

“Nice house,” he says, peeking into Heather’s room before following me down the stairs.

“That’s the room with the giant walk-in closet. Of course, that’s where Heather ended up.”

“Oh, you poor, deprived child,” Nate teases as we turn past the den.

“Right? I’m scarred for life.” In the kitchen, I open the cupboard, checking out our breakfast selections. “Cheerios. Oatmeal. Granola bars. Bread.” I close the cupboard and nod toward the fruit bowl on the counter. “Apples. Bananas. Oranges.” Lastly, I open the fridge. “Yogurt, but it’s the sugar-free, organic crap that tastes like sour cream. Eggs. Juice. Milk.” When I closed the fridge, Nate is leaning against the counter.

“Do you like eggs?” he asks.

I shrug. “Yeah. I’m not good at cooking them, though. Unless you count hard-boiling them.”

“I don’t. But lucky for you, I’m a halfway decent cook. How do you like your eggs? Scrambled? Over-easy? In an omelet? Poached?”

Instead of answering, I tip my head to one side. The homeless guy who clearly knows how to throw a punch also knows how to cook?

“Omelets are my specialty, just so you know.” He nudges past me and opens the fridge. “Do you have cheese?”

Opening one of the drawers, I ask, “Cheddar, mozzarella, or Swiss?”

Nate grins the crooked-tooth grin. “Omelets it is.”

…

Nate is a natural in the kitchen. He breaks eggs with skill and precision. He chops a few slices of ham into evenly sized pieces and mixes them into the eggs along with cheddar cheese. The kitchen smells amazing. I set the table, brew coffee, and pour us each a glass of orange juice. When I avoid burning the toast, I’m proud of my success.

While he cooks and then in between bites, Nate asks about my family. I tell him about my parents and their jobs, about Heather, about Rosalinda and Misty. Nothing too deep. Just the basics. “Poetry sounded like a good class when I signed up for it,” I say when he asks about my second semester class schedule. “I mean, I’d rather read a one-page poem than a three hundred-page novel any day. But then there’s all this imagery and symbolism and stuff I just don’t get. Sometimes I swear my teacher and I read completely different poems. It’s ridiculous.”

Nate sits at our kitchen table like he belongs there. His plate and glass are empty. He’s leaning back in his chair, arms folded casually, relaxed look on his face. “That’ll teach you to take the easy way out, right?”

“Right,” I agree. As I down my last sip of juice, I realize how dry my throat is and how much talking I’ve been doing. When I set my glass down, I run my finger along the rim. Nate doesn’t jump to fill the silence with another question this time, so I ask one of my own. “What about your family?”

He hesitates, then stands and picks up his plate, glass, and silverware. I follow suit and think he won’t answer, but then he says, “There’s not much to tell.”

Our dishes clink as I set mine on top of his near the sink. “Most people without much to tell don’t live in other peoples’ garages.”

Nate hesitates. “Maybe.”

“You’ve gotta tell me something,” I say, as I locate a sponge and dish soap under the sink. “I told you a lot. It’s only fair.”

As I fill the sink with warm, sudsy water, he brings the pan and spatula over from the stove. I catch the scent of something soft and pretty. At first I think it’s the dish soap, but then I remember it’s Nate’s skin washed with my cucumber melon soap. Yep. Still sexy. I wash a plate and hand it to him to dry with the blue and white checkered towel from the oven door. Still, Nate says nothing. “Come on,” I say, flinging a little soapy water in his direction. “Don’t make me splash it out of you.”

He smiles, and I hand him a glass. He’s quiet for another minute while he dries it. I wash the pan, but when I try to hand it to him, he’s staring out the window over the sink. Following his gaze, I don’t see anything other than tiny paw prints in the snow.

“I had a brother,” he says. “A twin brother.”

The past tense jumps out at me. I stand still as water droplets roll off the pan and back into the sink. “What happened?”

“He got sick.”

I want to see Nate’s eyes. To see if the pain there is as significant as I imagine it must be, but he stares straight ahead. I get the feeling he’s seeing something other than the snow. “When…how long…” There’s not a good way to talk about things like this. Though I know that more than anyone, I’m surprised to find it’s just as difficult on this side of the conversation.

“He was sick for a few years. Died in December.”

It’s only been a month at most. It’s still fresh. Still raw. “I’m sorry.” The words fall flat compared to the sympathy I want to convey. I hated when people said that to me, but what else is there to say? When it comes to death, the list of things that can ease the pain is very short, and words aren’t on that list.

Nate snaps his attention away from the window. He gives me a tight-lipped smile as he says, “Thanks,” and takes the dripping pan from my hands. He clears his throat and asks, “So, best omelet you ever ate, right? I miss cooking.”

I should make some sarcastic comment about cooking in my garage, but it’s impossible to pull my thoughts away from Nate’s brother and the memories of my own loss that threaten to surface. Instead, I stare at the soapy water and ask, “Nate? Your brother… Did you get to say good-bye?”

There’s a long enough pause that I think I shouldn’t have asked, but he answers before I can take the question back. “Yeah. I had weeks to say good-bye. I got to say everything I needed to say.”

I nod and close my eyes. Jealousy, sadness, and relief fight for my attention, but I swallow them down. When I open my eyes, Nate is studying me. “That’s good,” I say, the words catching in my throat.

We stand there for a few seconds. The faucet drips into the silence. “You okay?”

It makes me feel awful because I’m the one who should be asking him that question. “Yeah.” But I don’t sound okay at all.

Without warning, Nate reaches out and pulls me in for a hug. At first I stiffen, not sure how to react. Then, ever so slowly, I relax into his soft white T-shirt. My head doesn’t reach his shoulder, just falls against his chest. He smells like cucumber melon and comfort. I wrap my arms around him, even though my soapy hands are soaking his shirt. I feel safe. Warm. It doesn’t take long before the tightness in my throat eases, and I think the memories might not knock me to the ground.

“Thanks, Hanley,” he says when he finally lets me go. “I needed that.”

He’s giving me an out. An opportunity to step away without acknowledging the comfort or admitting to why I was the one who needed it. He’s got his secrets, and he’s letting me have mine. The acceptance and understanding in his eyes makes me think those secrets might not be very different. “You’re welcome.”

We turn back to the sink to finish washing, rinsing, and drying.

“So, really,” he says. “Be honest. Best omelet ever?”

“Yeah.” I force a smile. Back to the status quo. “Best omelet ever.”

…

Once the dishes are washed and put away—evidence of me cooking anything more complex than a bowl of cereal would raise immediate parental red flags—Nate and I head into the living room. Even though there are two couches and a recliner up for grabs, Nate sits directly next to me, close enough that contact is inevitable. Not that I’m about to complain. We watch stupid daytime television for an hour or two. One of those ridiculous judge shows comes on, and I don’t change the channel.

“Come on,” Nate says to the television after the evidence has been presented. “The guy’s obviously innocent, and the girl’s obviously crazy. If she really needed money, then she should have waited to buy the new car, not expected him to foot the bill. She shouldn’t have spent money she didn’t have.”

“Okay, but he shouldn’t have cheated on her when they were engaged. She thought they were going to get married and share funds, so she bought the car. That’s his fault.”

Nate rolls those gorgeous blue eyes and pokes me in the side. “You’re such a girl.”

I’m planning a sarcastic retort and a poke back when a non-TV-like sound catches my attention. I grab the remote and press the power button.

“Hey, what are you…”

“Shh! Did you hear that?” I whisper.

“Hear what?” he asks in a loud, fake whisper.

Clearly, he thinks I’m crazy. But I can’t be offended because I did hear something. One of the garage doors going up. “Shit.” One of my parents is home. One of my parents is home, and I have a boy in the house. A boy they don’t know. “My parents,” I hiss. “Someone’s home. You have to hide.”

“Shit,” Nate echoes. He looks around the room. There’s no room to hide behind furniture. No closet. No curtains.

“Come on.” I grab his hand and pull him upstairs. We’re just past the Third Step Creak and onto the landing when the door to the garage opens. I put my finger to my lips and tiptoe with Nate into my bedroom. I shove clothes and shoes out of the way so I can open the closet door. The plus side to never putting anything away is that more of my belongings are out of the closet than in it. There’s room for Nate. “Get in,” I whisper, kicking a few empty hangers out of the way.

“Hanley, I’m not going—”

“If my parents find you here, they’re going to kill someone. Maybe me. Maybe you. Maybe both. Do you want to test that theory, or do you want to get your ass into the closet?”

The sound of footsteps floats up the stairs. Flat, heavy footsteps, belonging to my dad. Maybe it’s those footsteps that convince Nate to crawl into the closet below a row of clothes. There’s barely enough time for him to sigh and pull his knees up to his chest before I close the closet door. “Ouch,” he says, and I hope whatever I did to him doesn’t make him bleed all over the carpet. Or my clothes.
Shit
. It’s only then that I realize Nate is sitting in the midst of my clothes. My underwear. Bras. The sock monkey footy pajamas Rosalinda gave me for Christmas as a joke. My face flushes, but I don’t have time to stress about that. I have bigger problems.