Page 10 of Naked Coffee Guy

I know this drill, how to pack in the least amount of time possible. I spent years doing this very thing, though back then I didn’t have much to pack. Now it feels like a joke to have my hands brushing against linen, silk, and mohair fabrics, and my eyes wandering over Bentley and Cartier aviators.

My ten-year-old self would shit a brick.

I take what I can carry, laying it flat in the trunk of my Jaguar. Then I travel the winding road back into Sunset Bay, toward the freeway that serves as the vein of our coastal town, until I reach a house I’m more than familiar with.

Benji’s home. And for the time being, my home too.

I sit in my car out front, peering at the place I grew up. The house is too large for a dying man. But he refused to go to the hospital. There are dozens of untouched rooms, though they were like that long before the cancer diagnosis. Now they’re cleaned each week by the housekeeper I hired, only to collect dust and be cleaned once again.

The only rooms that are used now is the living room, set up with a hospital bed and a fold-out luxury couch for the overnight nurse, and my own small bedroom in the back of the house. The one I lived in starting at age fifteen. The only room in this house I consider mine.

The place I’ll sleep tonight while dozens of families over on Beale Street wonder what the hell they’ll do in just a month’s time.

The dash camera says it’s just past four in the morning, but I haven’t been sleeping much the past few weeks anyways. Now that the deed is done, the ink dry, the contract all in place, I wonder if sleep will come easy again.

Has it ever?

In a few hours I’ll be driving to the office, so I don’t even bother to cover the Jaguar. I pull my clothes from the trunk and walk the short pathway to the house between two mounds of dry grass—the casualty from years of neglect. My key slides into the lock and I turn it noiselessly, just in case everyone is sleeping. But once I reach the living room, a small light in the corner lets me know Hattie is awake.

The nurse glances up from her book, then slips a bookmark in as she rises to her feet. Her grey hair frames a slender face lined with age, even more pronounced by the early hour. I’d worry about her all-nighters; except she’s been doing this for decades; says she prefers overnights to days because it keeps her off her feet.

“How is he?” I ask, then look to the sleeping figure in the bed that takes up a corner of the room. Benji’s chest rises and falls, a small groan escaping his lips with each breath, and the monitor next to him beeping in time with his heart.

At this point, Benji is just to be kept comfortable. He’s not on Hospice, because to do so would take away some of our end-of-life choices, and I want control over the way his last moments are lived. This includes the nursing staff, a team of five nurses who care for Benji on rotation. It’s been a few months, and we’re all on first name basis—Hattie, Anna, Shane, Amber, and Bill. All of them have been amazing with my benefactor, treating him with the utmost care, even on his most difficult days. But Hattie, with her motherly care and tireless spirit, is undeniably my favorite.

“Anna was here before me, and she said he slept most of the afternoon and evening,” Hattie says. “When I got here, he ate a little at dinner but not much. He had a slight fever upon evening, but nothing too serious.”

I lower my garment bag on the couch, then cross the room. I feel his forehead, and he stirs slightly but remains asleep. It’s damp, but cool to the touch, as if his fever just broke.

“Did you catch any sleep?” I ask her. She shakes her head. Hattie never sleeps on her shifts, even though I wish she would.

“But I got to the part where the government plot was revealed, and the heroine is kicking some serious ass,” she says, picking up her novel, a book named Numbered. I’m not much into reading, but kickass heroines remind me of a certain raven-haired vixen who left me tonight without a word.

She’s better off.

I retreat to my room, turning on the monitor next to me. Hattie is here, but it makes me feel better to keep tabs on Benji in case anything changes. Through the monitor, I can hear the slow rock of Hattie’s chair, the steady beep of the electrocardiogram, and Benji’s slow breathing.

He has weeks at most. Maybe a month. And once he’d dead, his sins will remain on my shoulders. But I’ve kept his secrets because I owe him that much. I clean the messes he’s left behind, praying it’s enough penance for whatever awaits him after this life. Praying it will save me too, because Lord knows I’ve enough sins of my own.

I pause for one more moment, listening to the regular symphony of the home. When I’m finally convinced it’s no different than any other night, I close my eyes and hope to get at least two hours of sleep before my day begins again.

Chapter Five

Maren

One month later

Everything looks unfamiliar when I wake up. The sun is coming in from the wrong side of the room, my feet hang off the wrong side of the bed. I pat the space beside me before opening my eyes, grateful to find it empty.

Then it all comes back to me. I’m at Nina’s house, in the smallest room in existence, and here for the unforeseeable future.

I’d stayed in my apartment up until the very last minute, relishing my solitude until the day all tenants were to vacate the premises. Plus, it helped Nina get used to the idea before I moved in. She hadn’t been thrilled about giving up the room that was supposed to be her closet, but of all my possibilities for my next home, she was the best choice.

With a bunch of asterisks, that is. I mean, she is Nina. But having a sloppy roommate who occasionally steals my stuff is better than being homeless.

And I’ll never be that again.

I’m still sore from yesterday’s move. I’ve never been one for exercise beyond a brisk walk, so carrying box after box down the stairs was a workout I was not conditioned for. Thank goodness for Claire’s boyfriend. Ethan and his buddies took care of the heavy stuff while Claire and I handled the lighter fare. Nina was working at Insomniacs while we moved, but she probably wouldn’t have helped anyway.