I groaned a little as I pushed myself to my feet, and Elliot whined again. “Shower,” I repeated, then turned on the shower and pulled the curtain closed.
I looked down at myself and sighed again. My shirt and sweatshirt were filthy, but they’d clean up. The jeans were a lost cause—well, maybe I could cut them off and turn them into shorts. At least then they wouldn’t be a total waste.
I stripped out of my clothes, then decided to do a whole load of laundry rather than just put mine in the basket—between the mud and the vomit, I didn’t want them in the apartment any longer than they had to be. After patching up my shin with some bandaids and butterfly bandages, I left Elliot a clean towel and a clean set of clothes—sweatpants, a VCU t-shirt, and a pair of clean socks.
There was laundry in the basement, so after I’d put on clean jeans and another t-shirt, this one from Pocahontas State Park, I grabbed a token (the landlord included five a month with rent, and we could buy more if we needed them) and ran down and put in a load, grateful that none of the other three tenants were trying to do laundry this morning.
I pushed back into the apartment, noting that the water was still running in the shower, telling me Elliot hadn’t dragged himself out yet. At least I didn’t have to pay for water.
Not really having anything better to do, I went to see if there was anything I could cobble together to resemble breakfast.
No fruit—I usually had bananas, but I was out. No cereal, see previous comment. No bread—out of that, too. No turkey bacon or chicken or vegan sausage. I did have eggs. But that was it. No potatoes. Not even any beans to try to make sad huevos rancheros.
Apparently, I was making eggs.
I’d gotten the carton out and was trying to decide between scrambled and fried when I heard Elliot clear his throat from behind me. I hadn’t been paying close enough attention as I went through the kitchen to hear the water shut off.
His hair hung loose, still damp, the white streak near the front standing out starkly. I rarely saw him with his hair down, and it made my chest tighten a little because it felt almost too intimate. Weird, I know, but it feltpersonalto see him with his hair unbound. Like he was Sampson and I was a gender-reversed Delilah, not that I was planning on cutting his hair or anything. The fact that he was in my clothes made the tightness worse—and churned acid in my stomach because he wasn’t wearing them for the reasons I wanted him to be.
Elliot held out his towel. “I—wasn’t sure what to do with this,” he rasped. “And I’m so,sosorry.”
I walked over and took the towel from him, taking it back to my now-empty hamper. When I came back into the kitchen, he was still standing where I’d left him.
“I am sorry, Seth,” he said, and he sounded miserable.
“How do you like your eggs?” I asked him. Maybe it was an asshole move to not accept his apology or to tell him it was okay, but I still didn’t know why it was he was here. What he’d come herefor. And I’d learned the hard way not to forgive things without knowing what they were.
“I—” He swallowed. “Can I at least buy you breakfast?”
I paused. It felt like a bad idea, to let him take me to breakfast. But I was hungry and had a total of four eggs in my shitty apartment and no coffee.
“You need shoes,” I pointed out, closing the egg carton and putting it back in the fridge. I went and grabbed my old trainers, handing them to him. “I have laundry in the washer,” I told him, by way of answering his question about breakfast. I didn’t say it was because of him. “I have enough time to take you home,” I told him. “But that’s about it. The washer’s communal.” I didn’t want to seem mean.
“I’ll call in a pickup order?” Elliot suggested, his voice more vulnerable than I’d ever heard him sound before.
I nodded once. “Sure.”
He looked relieved. “Okay. I—Can I borrow your phone?”
I handed it to him, and he tapped at it for a few moments, then held it up to one ear. When someone answered on the other end of the line, he ordered a garden skillet with dry toast and hashbrowns, telling them to make sure there was no dairy in it. Then he hung up and turned to look at me. “I am sorry about this.”
I nodded again. “Aren’t you eating breakfast?”
He grimaced. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, it won’t be ready until you’re back on the way home.”
“Well, thanks.” I was so awkward. We stared at each other in silence for a few moments, and then I cleared my throat. “Do you need anything before we go?” I asked him.
He swallowed, his expression stricken. “No, thank you.”
I nodded one more time. “Then let’s get you home.”
It was his turn to nod, and he followed me out the door, waiting quietly as I locked the door, then following me down the stairs and across the lot to my Cruiser, shuffling in my too-big-for-him shoes.
Elliot climbed in silently, staring down at his hands, the damp curtain of his hair hiding his face. “I am sorry, Seth,” he said again.
“Why?” I asked him, finally.
“I—had too much to drink,” he half-whispered, although I could hear him just fine, thanks to my shifter senses.
