Page 62 of Love Me Not
Without another word, I spun on my heels and headed for the closet on the other side of the living room, unhappy with the tightness in my chest. Spending time together at work was very different from having Trey in my home. This felt way more vulnerable. Like letting him see behind the curtain, where I couldn’t hide.
What if my messiness was a deal breaker? So what if it was? He was the one who started this. The one who said he liked me for no specific reason and that my faults, which I’d been very upfront about, didn’t matter to him. If that was the case, then he should like the messy me as much as the teacher me or the drama proctor me or the me who helped little kids fish for apples.
Still, I could hardly contain the urge to shove him back into the hall and do a frenzied straightening before letting him back in. That I cared so much about his opinion annoyed the ever living daylights out of me.
“I’m ready,” I said, shoving an arm into my coat.
“You’ve got a nice place here.”
I froze with one arm in the air. “What?”
“It’s nice,” he said, leaning forward to see over to the kitchen area. “Lots of natural light, high ceilings, great walkable neighborhood. I like it.”
Slowly sliding my other arm into the coat, I said, “You really do need to get your eyes checked.”
His low chuckle did odd things to my insides. “Why do you say that?”
Gesturing wildly, I pointed out the obvious. “The place is a mess.”
Trey shrugged. “It’s a little messy, yeah, but you’ve been busy with the play. I get not having as much time to clean.”
Oh, was he going to be so disappointed.
“It always looks like this.”
The grin faded. “You live like this all the time?”
“Yes, I live like this. I rarely do laundry and when I do it stays in the basket for a week after it’s already been in the dryer for several days. I hate opening mail so I let it pile up, and I see no point in putting my shoes in a closet when I’m just going to put them back on again. I don’t make my bed, I don’t dust, and I can’t remember the last time I cleaned my shower.”
I may have been a little defensive about my cleaning habits—or lack thereof—but this was my space and I could live in it however I pleased.
After a moment of silence, he said, “You do shower though, right?”
What kind of a question was that? “Of course I do.”
“And the clothes you’re wearing are clean?”
The jeans had been worn a few times but everyone knew you didn’t wash your jeans after wearing them only once. “Yes.”
“Then okay.”
“Okay?” Was this a trick?
“Yeah, okay.” He gestured toward the living room with a lift of his chin. “You’re one of those people who can live in chaos and be good with it. No big deal.”
Still defensive, I said, “This isn’t chaos.”
“Not to you, probably. Didn’t you say you’re one of five kids?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So I’m guessing your house while growing up was pretty chaotic.”
Was it? My brain spun back to a childhood filled with yelling and fighting and noise and Mom pestering us to pick up our stuff. Holy crap, he was right.
“I never made the connection.”
He slid the cuffs of his sweater up his forearms. “Why would you? We all have a different perception of normal, and this is normal to you. Nothing wrong with that.”