The reason for this was obvious. By then, I'd had more than enough humiliation for one night.
If I'd asked Brody anything about where he planned to sleep, he surely would've assumed that I was hitting on him or something – because yes, he was that arrogant.
Cami said, "But you at least locked the door, right?"
"To the bedroom?" I flopped over on the bed and gave the door a quick glance. Oh yeah, I'd locked it, alright. But probably, that was a waste, too. As I'd seen firsthand, a locked door would hardly keep Brody out.
Still, I assured Cami that I was being careful and finished by promising her another update after Brody and I talked.
After we ended the call, I got up, trudged into the small private bathroom, and prepared to face him.
Using toiletries from my own duffle bag, I brushed my teeth and washed my face. I threw on fresh clothes and even a little makeup – not because I wanted to impress him, but rather because it's what I normally did before venturing out.
Turns out, it was all for nothing.
Other than myself, the house was empty.
Standing in the modest kitchen, I took a quick look around.
Thanks to the home's location – directly across the street from my grandparent's place – I'd seen this house plenty of times from the outside. It was a tidy ranch-style home with three bedrooms, maybe four.
As far as the exact number, I wasn't sure. I mean, it's not like I started opening doors or anything.
Still, I remained fairly certain that the house was empty. It felt empty, even if it did smell like bacon. My mouth watered at the mere thought, and I couldn't stop myself from opening the fridge, just to check.
No bacon.
In fact, the fridge was completely empty, except for maybe a dozen bottles of water.
Well, that was disappointing.
With a sigh, I closed the fridge and turned away. As I did, I spotted a note taped to the oven. The note was written in big, bold handwriting. It said, "For Clara."
I frowned. Clara? As in Clara Cooper, my fake name?
Slowly, I walked to the oven and opened the door just a crack. The oven was slightly warm and smelled so bacony that my breath caught.
On the oven's top rack, there was a silver takeout tray covered in foil. With primal longing, I stared at the thing. It could only be for me, right?
Still, I didn't want to assume anything, especially when it came to Brody. Reluctantly, I closed the oven door and took another look at the note. At the very bottom, in the same hand-writing – only much smaller – there was a very tiny P.S.
It said, "Yeah, I mean you. Don't overthink it."
It was vintage Brody, and I fought a sudden, stupid urge to smile.
Even when he did something nice, he managed to make me just a little bit crazy.
But hey, I wasn't complaining. Bacon was bacon.
With unseemly haste, I yanked open the oven and reached inside. The container was warm, but not hot. When I tore off the lid, I saw bacon, scrambled eggs, and even buttered toast.
Oh, man.
Without bothering to sit down or search for silverware, I devoured the breakfast in two minutes flat.
When I finished, I felt a million times better. With renewed optimism, I wandered to the front window and opened the blinds.
What I saw outside made my stomach sink, even in spite of the breakfast. My grandparent's house – it looked absolutely terrible.
The blue paint was peeling and faded. The front porch was missing spindles. The grass was nearly knee-high. Even the shrubbery was a total overgrown mess, like it hadn't been trimmed in years.
Sure, I'd noticed all of this when the ride-share had dropped me off just yesterday. But now, looking at the place with new, critical eyes, I realized just how neglected it had been.
Still, I tried to look on the bright side. The situation wasn't all bad. Neglected or not, at least the house wasn't slated for destruction, not anymore.
As relief coursed through me, I felt a surge of something that felt a lot like gratitude – to Brody Blastoviak of all people. He was going to save it. He hadn't wanted to. That much was obvious. But he'd agreed anyway – even though he had made me beg.
Yes, it had totally sucked, but it could've been so much worse. He could've said no, whether I was on my knees or not.
At the thought, I stifled a mortified shudder. How awful would've that been?
But I refused to dwell on it. Instead, I squared my shoulders and focused on the positive. Begging wasn't all I could do. I could help. For starters, I could trim the hedges, and maybe even mow the lawn.
In spite of last night's rain, the morning had dawned sunny and bright. The day was windy, too, judging from the rustling of the trees and the windswept motions of the overgrown grass.
If the sun and wind cooperated, the grass – even as tall as it was – would almost surely be dry by this afternoon, which meant that I could get a decent start on the mowing.
With growing excitement, I dashed back to the bedroom, made the bed, and then ventured into the attached garage in search of the things I'd need – a lawn mower, hedge trimmers, and maybe a rake or shovel.
I found everything I needed in no time flat, including a gas-powered push-mower and a spare can of gas.
It was a sign. It had to be.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I hauled everything across the street and got to work. The work was hard, messy, and filled with all kinds of challenges I hadn't anticipated.
By noon, I was a sweaty, bedraggled mess, but I hardly cared. I kept on working, fueled only by bottled
