Beautiful Sacrifice (10 page)

I opened the door for Taylor, watching with a glimmer of amusement while he made a show of glancing around. His shorts sat low on his hips, and he turned his white hat backward, taking in every corner of the room. He was a man I would normally stay far away from, and there he was, beautifully sloppy, standing in my apartment.

“Is this a satisfactory location to do your laundry?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Monumentally better than the Laundromat.” He pushed the door close. “Where’s your laundry room?”

I gestured for him to follow and then slid open a set of doors situated in the wall between the kitchen and the bathroom. The washer and dryer, probably purchased the same year I was born, were just barely set inside the shallow rectangular closet.

“Still better than the Laundromat?” I asked.

“Yes, but I can go if you want me to.”

“Just turn it to whatever setting and pull the dial to start it.”

Taylor’s appreciative smile was actually a little—okay, a lot—cute. He followed my directions, turning the dial on the washer and pulling. The water began to pour out from the back of the drum. He bent down, grabbed several pairs of jeans, and threw them in.

I retreated to my bedroom, organizing my tips. I added half to the previous day’s collection in my wallet and the other half to the shoebox. After stashing both, I changed into a pair of sweatpants and an oversized gray T-shirt.

“Where are your jeans?” Taylor asked.

I stopped in my doorway, taken off guard by his strange question. I pointed to my bedroom. “In there on the floor.”

“There’s room in the washer,” he said, pouring in the laundry soap.

“My jeans don’t know your jeans well enough to be washed together.”

He chuckled and shook his head while he watched the basin fill with water and suds. “Did I do something to make you hate me? Or is this some kind of test?” He faced me. “Because I’m not trying to get into your pants, Ivy League. I’m just asking to wash them.”

I retreated to my bedroom, picking up the wad of denim next to my nightstand. Then I crossed the hall and ducked into the bathroom just long enough to pick through the dirty laundry for the other two pairs somewhere inside the pile.

“Here,” I said, handing him the jeans.

“This is it?” he asked, throwing them into the washer.

“Yes, so if you ruin them, I’m screwed.” I backed away from him and fell into the chair.

“I won’t ruin them. I’ve been doing laundry for a long time.”

“Your mom didn’t do it for you?”

Taylor shook his head.

“Good. Moms can really screw kids up that way. You’re lucky you never ended up crying over the washing machine because you couldn’t figure out how to turn it on.”

“Sounds like you know from experience.”

“The help did our laundry.” I waited for his reaction.

He had none.

“If your parents are so rich, why are you in this shithole?” he asked, pulling off his sweatshirt and throwing it into the washing machine, leaving him in just a thin, too-small T-shirt that read
Eakins Football
in faded letters.

I stared at him for a moment, fighting the inevitable smile creeping across my face. “They made bad choices.”

Taylor lumbered to the couch and fell onto it, bouncing a bit, and then he tested the cushions by pushing down on them with his hands. “Like what?”

“None of your business.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms.

“What’s with all the tattoos?” I asked, letting my eyes glide over the mishmash of colors and shapes that covered his skin down to his wrist.

“We all have them.”

“Who’s we?”

“My brothers and me. Well, most of us. Tommy doesn’t.”

“How many brothers?”

“Four.”

“Dear God.”

He nodded, staring at whatever memory was playing before his eyes. “You have no idea.”

“Where are they? Your brothers.”

“Here and there.”

I liked this game, all questions and no answers, and he didn’t seem to mind. Taylor’s white T-shirt crumpled in the middle, thin enough to hint at his tan skin and nicely formed abs. Abs—all the assholes had them. Four to six muscles were like a graph chart to show just how big of a douche bag the guy was.

“Are you the oldest?” I asked.

“Yes and no.”

“Any sisters?”

Taylor made a face. “God, no.”

Either he hated women, or he treated them badly enough not to want to think about them as people. No matter which it was, the longer he was in my apartment, the less I worried about guilt being a problem.

“Want to watch television?” I asked.

“No.”

“Good,” I said, settling back into my chair. “I don’t have cable.”

“Got any movies?”

“Phaedra has a box of VHS tapes and a VCR in that closet,” I said, casually pointing. “But I haven’t hooked it up yet.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“A while.”

Taylor stood up, groaning as he did, and then he ambled over to the closet and opened the door. He was well over six feet tall and could see everything on the top shelf just fine. He pulled the string to turn on the light and then reached for the dusty VCR, pulling it out along with a mess of cables.

He blew off the dust and then leaned back, looking disgusted. “Pick a movie. I’m going to get this bad boy hooked up.”

“Are you bored with the stimulating conversation?”

“To death,” he said the words without apology.

Oddly, there was no hint that he was unhappy with the way things were going. He didn’t seem annoyed or even put-off, which was a relief. At least he wasn’t going to require an exorbitant amount of attention and effort.

“
Aliens
,” I said, pointing.

Taylor took the box over to the small television sitting on top of a two-shelf table. He sat the VCR on the bottom shelf and then began unraveling the wires. “Yeah, I like that one.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Like it? It’s a classic.”

“I saw
Sixteen Candles
in there. I figured you’d pick that.” He plugged a cable into the back of the VCR and then reached around the back of the television.

“Clearly, you don’t know me at all.”

“I can’t decide if you’re trying to hate me or trying to make me hate you.”

“Neither.”

Taylor made a face but only because he had to reach further to screw the cable into the proper connection. “So, I don’t.”

“You don’t what?”

“Hate you.”

“Damn,” I teased.

Taylor achieved whatever it was he had been trying to do and sat upright before stretching out his legs and crossing them, leaning his back against the wall beside the TV. “I think you hate yourself enough for the both of us.”

I felt my cheeks turn red. He didn’t know how close he’d come to the truth.

“Is that a rage coming on?” Taylor said, mistaking my embarrassment for anger.

My arm pressed against the side of the chair as I leaned forward. “You don’t have that kind of effect on me.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I’d have to give a shit about you to get angry.”

“Oh, are you analyzing now, Ivy League? I thought you said you weren’t a psych major.”

“Now, you’re just being rude.”

“Saying you’re shit at conversation and that I have a feeling you’re a judgmental bitch is rude, but I wasn’t going to take it that far. But you are … and you are.”

“Ouch.” I purposely kept my features smooth.

He shook his head, confused. “One minute, you’re reactive, and the next, I can’t get a reaction. You’re all over the place. I cannot figure you out—like, at all. And I minored in women.”

“That must get you so much ass and so many high fives from your friends. But that doesn’t impress me.”

He paused for a moment. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I don’t think so. But you can if you want.”

“I don’t want. And that’s weird for me that I have an opinion, one way or the other.”

“I’m intrigued. Continue.”

“First of all, I like that you’re awkward as fuck and that you’re a raging bitch. Girls tend to giggle and run their hands through their hair a lot when I’m around. You’ve all but told me to fuck off.”

“Fuck off.”

“See? I like you.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to like me.”

“I know. And I don’t, not like that. And I think that’s what surprises me the most.”

His revelation caught me off guard, but the twinge in the pit of my stomach surprised me even more.

“Listen, Ivy League, I’m here until October. I work my ass off all day. If I’m lucky, I work first shift, so I can eat lunch at the café. You and your hateful-ass mouth have been the highlight of this job. I think you’re just being hostile because you think I’m trying to bag you, and clearly, I’m not capable of taming the shrew in this story. So, let’s turn the volume up on
Aliens
, so we can’t hear that piece-of-shit washer of yours and hang out.”

I blinked.

He shrugged. “I don’t care about whatever problem you have with your parents. I don’t care that you have some sort of fucked-up issue with men. I don’t want within five feet of your pussy, and you’ve gotta know that now because I’d never use the P word if I’m looking to get laid. Girls hate that. I just want to be around someone cool who also owns a washer and dryer and the best collection of VHS tapes I’ve seen since the nineties.”

“Five feet, huh?” I said. I crawled off my chair, across the scratchy carpet, and over to where Taylor was sitting.

He stiffened as I planted my hands on each side of his legs and leaned in, stopping inches from his lips.

“You sure about that?” I whispered.

He swallowed and then opened his mouth, speaking quietly, “Get the fuck away from me. I know full well that touching you would be like putting my finger on a loaded gun.”

“Then don’t pull the trigger,” I dared him, my lips almost grazing his.

He didn’t move forward, but he didn’t retreat. His body was relaxed, comfortable, with being that close to mine. “I won’t.”

I sat back on my heels and rested my hands on my knees, thinking about what he’d said. “You sound awfully confident for a guy who keeps coming to see me day after day.”

“You’re fucking weird—like, weirder than I thought. Did I pass the test?”

“Yes,” I said matter-of-factly.

“I might like being around you, but that doesn’t mean I’m a fucking fool. And that’s a ridiculous test. Any guy is going to go for it if a girl is begging for it like that.”

“You didn’t.”

“I keep telling you, I’m not an idiot. I know what you’re trying to do. I just don’t know why.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You say we can be friends, but you don’t keep your word.”

“Okay then. I promise to make relentless attempts to bag your ass. How’s that?”

I tilted my head, seeing beyond the hint of his smile, his dimple, and his late-night stubble splashed across his defined jawline. I wouldn’t find what I was looking for in his words or even in his eyes. Taylor’s truth was just out of reach, like my own, so I knew where to look and how to find it. The only way to see into someone’s soul was with your own.

“You promise?” I repeated.

“Swear.”

“Are you scared of me?” I asked, only half-joking.

Taylor didn’t hesitate. “Not even a little. I know exactly what to expect from you.”

“And how is that?”

“Because I’m fairly certain that we’re the same person.”

My eyebrows shot up, unable to hide my surprise at his conclusion, and I offered a single nod. “
Aliens
it is.”

“You going to quit busting my balls?” he asked, crossing his arms.

I crawled back over to the chair and sat down, hooking my legs over the arm. “Probably not, but it’ll just be run-of-the-mill Falyn bitchery, and it won’t be because I’m trying to get rid of you.”

Taylor sat on his knees in front of the television, pulled on the knob to turn it on, and then twisted the dial to channel three. “You forgot the movie.”

I went to the closet and pulled it from a stack before tossing it to him. He pulled the tape out of its cover and fed it into the VCR’s front slot. Once the tape settled in, the movie began to play. For a few seconds, the picture along with the somber violins playing during the opening credits became fuzzy, and then it all cleared up just as Ripley’s spaceship appeared in the distance, a tiny speck of white among the darkness.

Taylor walked on his knees to the sofa before crawling up and stretching out.

As I returned to my chair, a tiny part of me wanted to be polite and explain why I was being so hard on him, but I squashed it down to where I kept the old me. Explanations and apologies were a waste for someone like me. Facing forward and remembering to forget were the only things I had, and under no conditions would I ever allow myself to feel—for anyone—and risk any other similar feelings to come to the surface.

Taylor reached down to the crotch of his shorts and adjusted, tugging at the navy fabric. Once he was satisfied with the location of his junk, he pulled down his T-shirt.

I rolled my eyes. He didn’t notice.

One arm was propping his head as he sat with his eyes glued on the screen.

Just as the rescue ship crashed and Ripley was apologizing to Newt, Taylor put our jeans in the dryer and started a new load in the washer. He returned to the couch, repeating Newt’s line with a perfect young girl’s British accent, “‘They mewstly come at night … mewstly.’”

I chuckled, but he ignored me, not saying another word until the end credits.

My eyes were heavy. I was feeling the effects of a long Saturday on my feet.

“You’re right,” he said, standing up. “It’s a classic.”

“It might take a while to get all those jeans dry,” I said.

Taylor opened the dryer door and checked. “Yep, still damp.” He turned the knob to reset the time, and then he stretched out on the sofa again, his eyes blinking twice before they closed.

“You can’t sleep here,” I said.

“Okay. But can I accidentally fall asleep here?”

“No.”

He shook his head, his eyes still closed. “I’m even doing your damn laundry. You could at least let me take a nap between loads.”

“I’m going to bed soon. You can’t be here while I’m sleeping.”