“Okay,” I replied, not really wanting to get into an argument with him about it by not replying.
He made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded unhappy, but he didn’t press the issue any farther.
I turned into his driveway, then drove up and around the curve to the house, where I stopped.
“Your breakfast should be ready, in your name, by the time you get back to the Farm Inn.” He paused, hand on the door handle. “I am sorry about this, and thanks. For everything.”
“You’re welcome.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.
He got out of the car, closing the door and shuffling his way toward the stoop—then he stopped, I saw his shoulders move in a sigh, and he began picking his way around the back. Because he’d shifted—his front door was probably locked, but the sliding back door would have been the one he left open.
I waited, watching until I saw lights come on through the vertical strip of rippled and leaded glass beside the door, telling me that Elliot had gotten inside.
Then I threw it in reverse and left, forcing myself not to look back at the house with its lonely light gleaming out against the overcast morning.
There wasa new pair of hiking boots—in the right size and far more expensive than what I’d have gotten myself, although they were exactly the kind I’d have enviously gazed at before getting something more budget-friendly—sitting in a box outside my door the next morning, a scrawledSorry about your shoeswritten on the top in sharpie. My clothes and shoes that Elliot had worn home were in a brown paper bag beside them.
I sighed, then picked up both box and bag and brought them inside.
I appreciated the fact that I wouldn’t have to clean badger yarf off my shoes, and I did need new ones, but…
I didn’t like owing Elliot any more than I already did.
I knew, logically, that this was his way of apologizing and payingmeback for having put up with him throwing up on my shoes and letting him shower in my apartment and taking him back home again. Even though he had already bought me breakfast.
Good breakfast. I’d made a mental note that when I had money again, I wanted to go back to the Farm Inn.
My phone buzzed.
He’s a dumbass, it said. The message was from Hart. It buzzed again.Keep the fucking shoes.
I blinked.Are you also stalking me?I asked him, knowing full well that Elliot had undoubtedly told him what had happened.
Seriously, if you don’t keep the shoes, I’ll have to stage an intervention.
I let out a snort.Why?I asked.
Because he’s putting you through shit for no fucking reason, came the next message.Because he is, as I said, a fucking dumbass. You deserve the shoes. More than the shoes. Shoes are a mere token of what you should get for putting up with his stupid ass.
I should keep the new, expensive shoes because he’s a dumbass?
Glad we understand each other.
I let out a laugh. I still wasn’t sure I should keep the hiking boots, but having Hart’s perspective on it made me feel less guilty. My bootshadpretty much been ruined. And it wasn’t like I’d demanded new ones. Or expensive ones. I’d still have felt guilty if he’d gotten me a bargain-basement new pair.
Maybe Hart was right and I needed to just let it go and take the boots.
I set the box in my tiny closet—since I wasn’t going hiking today—and took off my work loafers to switch them for the trainers.
I had on my only other pair of jeans and a t-shirt again, this one plain and light blue. It was warmer today—and a little later in the morning—so I didn’t need a sweatshirt. Thankfully, the vomit, dirt, and grime had come out of my shirt and sweatshirt, and I’d put in enough detergent that even my nose couldn’t smell it.
I’d been on my way out the door when I’d found Elliot’s offering. I needed groceries—badly—and also needed to pick up a new pair of trainers for the physical training component of firefighting certification.
And another pair of jeans.
And some serious first-aid cream, because apparently I had not cleaned out the cuts on my shin adequately—not surprising, given how fast I had been working and how disgusting Elliot had been—and they were showing early signs of infection. If I could purge the wound with alcohol and iodine, then load it up with antibiotic ointment, I might beat the infection without having to go to urgent care for oral antibiotics.
I all but held my breath at the bottom of the stairs, half-afraid that the shoes meant that Elliot would be waiting for me. Part of me wanted that—and part of me recognized that it would be unhealthy for both of us if he were.
