Detour: A Creekwood Novel (Creekwood Series Book 1)

After staying up late last night to catch up with Drew, I let myself sleep in. A rarity, for multiple reasons. Before I had a job to occupy my time on the weekends, I would sometimes find my mom hovering over my bed. With me still in it. Sleeping. And it wasn’t in a concerned motherly type of way either. It was like she was scrutinizing me, sizing me up during my most vulnerable state. Like she was looking for weaknesses to capitalize on later.

I started waking up earlier to leave the house before she was up. I would walk to different spots. Places I knew Rianne would never venture for fear of appearing as common as everyone else. Parks where I could exercise. Bakeries to do homework. Maybe those were places she went to when she was still playing at being a good mom. Long before I ever came along. Back when she was just a kid herself. A kid raising a kid, she didn’t know any better. Now though, now she does but just doesn’t give a shit.

Sometimes Drew would pick me up and we’d go for a drive. The kind of drives where no talking is required. Only music, the road, and a mutual understanding. Those were the best. We would drive for hours, taking turns picking songs. He would play his favorites. I would play ones that were actually good. It was so…simple. I’ve never had to question Drew’s intentions. I’ve never had to shield who I am with him. He’s the only person I’ve ever felt truly comfortable with.

Until last night that is.

I didn’t tell Drew about the boys across the hall. I didn’t tell him how Beckett’s jovial antics remind me of the ease Drew and I share with each other. I didn’t tell him how Coty has this crazy way of making me feel safe and threatened at the same time. I didn’t tell him about Marc’s penetrating personality that I can’t help but want to learn about. Last night was the first time I kept things from Drew. Even though my new neighbors are just that—neighbors—their presence is something I don’t want to share just yet.

Padding over to the fridge, I take out some eggs and a slice of cheese. Eggs I can do. Mostly. Scrambled eggs are my safe zone. Over easy, hard boiled, poached, those are far, far outside of my wheelhouse. My mom was usually too high strung to form an appetite, apparently assuming her child worked the same way. I didn’t. I went hungry more often than not since I didn’t know how to cook. The only time I’ve ever eaten regularly was at my last job where the restaurant provided one free meal per shift. Now I’m back on my own though and forced to figure it out, just like I always did, but with more food available to work with, so that helps.

A plate packed with cheesy eggs and toast in hand, I go out to the balcony to enjoy my late breakfast. The slow-to-warm weather is calling my name, so juggling the glass of orange juice along with my slippery plate, I somehow get the sliding glass door open only to find the balcony completely empty. Oh, yeah, I haven’t bought a patio chair yet. Shit. I mentally add it to my growing list, then sit on the gritty artificial turf-covered ground, trying not to look too hard at what I’m sitting on. I will sit out here. I will eat my breakfast al fresco. And I will enjoy it, damn it.

Mouth full of soggy eggs, I take in the crowded parking lot below noticing Coty’s Camaro and bike both parked in their usual spots. A lazy Sunday morning for both of us.

Just then the sliding glass door to my left opens revealing Coty as he steps out onto his balcony. Shirtless.

Jeee-sus.

He catches me gawking and raises his bowl of what I’m guessing is cereal in greeting.

My mouth still stuffed with food and my throat suddenly dry, there’s no way for me to swallow without needing the Heimlich maneuver so I flop my hand up haphazardly before letting it fall back to my side.

Coty smiles tightly, saving me from total humiliation, and continues scooping spoonfuls in silence. I, however, can’t take my eyes off him even if I tried and without a shirt covering his tattoos I obviously don’t want to, so I peruse his skin like the dermatologist I’m not. Roses on each side just below his collarbone with small birds underneath. Intricately feminine pictures, yet they fit him perfectly. Very interesting choices that I’d love to know the reasons behind. I drink in the rest of him as if he were the juice neglected at my feet. He’s once again barefoot which I’m starting to think might be his norm. His oversized athletic shorts reach just below his knees and just shy of his boxers’ waistband. Although boxer briefs might look good on him, too, I’m glad he’s sporting boxers. They’ve always been my favorite. Honestly, the guy would look good in a ripped paper sack. He’s so sexy without even trying. He just rolls over, throws on shorts, pours some cereal and BAM!—hottest guy alive nominee. It’s so unfair. He knows it, too. How could he not? It’d be like a bird not knowing it flies. Neither of them have to work at it, but they don’t flaunt it unnecessarily either. Coty probably thinks he’s just enjoying his breakfast outside, not even realizing he’s driving me insane with want like I’ve never experienced before. Last night ended abruptly but more than that it ended with a pit formed in my stomach. A pit called confusion. Why he slammed the door so suddenly after being so kind was strange, to say the least.

Unsure what to say, I remain quiet as I finish my food. The peaceful silence is only interrupted by a family of church-goers as they load into their van.

“Are you off today?” Coty’s voice wraps around me, settling like a cozy blanket on my arms. Even though it seems off, not as thoughtful, I still snuggle into it.

“No, I go in later.” My eyes stay on the van as it pulls away but finally give in to look over at Coty finding him watching me intently. “You?”

After a moment, he nods. “We all work together and try to keep similar schedules but our days off don’t always match up. Today I’m the only one home but it’s too quiet in there. You should come over and keep me company.” He lets that thought land between us, perched and ready to take flight before adding, “Unless, your boyfriend would care.”

Boyfriend?

My mind filters back to last night when I took Drew’s call. It was only after I answered the phone that Coty left without so much as a wave goodbye. Maybe he heard Drew’s voice and assumed that was my boyfriend. Maybe he had a bad case of diarrhea and couldn’t wait for me to get off the phone. Either seems plausible but with his guarded demeanor today and his near-accusation, it’s safe to say Coty’s stomach wasn’t the issue. I stop myself from blanching at the idea of Drew being my boyfriend. The mere mention of it is laughable but something has me staying quiet. Self-preservation or self-destruction, whatever you want to call it, they typically go hand-in-hand in my experience and this is no exception. It would be too easy to clear things up, but it would also remove a brick from the metaphorical wall separating us. The one that needs to stay in place. For everybody’s sake.

“Actually, I need to hit the library before my shift. I’ve got a paper I need to finish and print off before class tomorrow.”

Oddly, Coty’s face reveals as much relief as it does disappointment. Did he even want me to come over? Was he testing me? Another one of his tricky tactics in trying to figure me out.

He masks it by asking, “What kind of paper?”

Getting to my feet, I answer easily, “The bullshit kind. My English teacher didn’t get the memo that school is almost out and insists on assigning ridiculous projects up until the last minute.” Literally.

“Don’t you have a computer that you could type it up on? I could print it at my shop for you. It’d save you the extra trip.”

I’m already shaking my head as I gather my dirty dishes, blowing a strand of hair out of my face when I stand again.

“Well, shit, you should come over here then. We have every kind of device you could dream of, including three laptops. Our entire apartment is basically saturated with Wi-Fi.” Coty uses his hands, one still holding the bowl, to emphasize his point. “I can email your paper to Marc and have him print it there before he leaves for the day.”

“That’s okay. I, uh,” I stumble over my words, over my reasoning. “I was just getting ready to leave.”

His raised eyebrows mock me but he lets me off the hook by changing the subject. “You can always DM me if you change your mind.” I drop my gaze to the lot below, biting my bottom lip into my mouth. “You do have Instagram, don’t you?” My eyes meet his. The lines in his forehead crease. “No social media at all?”

“I don’t see the need.” While everyone else is celebrating their lives, I’m just trying to survive mine. No amount of filters in the world can disguise that particular struggle.

Quietly, he asks, “Are you running from something?”

Smothering my scoff is useless. He isn’t far off. I’m not running from something; I’m running from someone. Always have been, perhaps always will be. The characteristics our parents pass down to us don’t even have to be handed off at close range for them to still cause damage. Who knows what kind of features I carry from my father? And my mother…I’ll be working the rest of my life to stop traits I’ve inherited from her from coming to life and taking over. But still. Coty doesn’t get to make assumptions just because I’m not like everybody else. I’ve never needed validation from strangers because I know what I bring to the table and I’m okay sitting there alone. Especially without the selfies to prove it.

I run my eyes over my Jeep when Coty speaks again. “Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I’m impressed you’re able to live on your own, that’s all. Most people our age brag about every aspect of their life and an apartment to themselves would make anybody’s feed. You won’t tell me anything about yourself and all anyone does anymore is overshare. I like that you’re different. I like-” He stops suddenly, shrugging his shoulders. The move draws my attention back to his tattoos and away from whatever he was about to say. While I try, and fail, to stop staring at the only flowers I’m not opposed to he says, “I just want to help out, if you need it.”

I’m jolted back to the conversation. Typical. Men thinking all women need help. And from them of course. What about all the times we need help because of them? What about the idea that we should be able to live out a successful existence without their interference at all? Such a foreign concept, I know.

Bonding time is over.

“Enjoy your day off, Coty.”

His eyebrows pinch together. “Alright, I can take a hint. Just remember we’re here if you need anything. And if your teacher gives you another assignment, feel free to stop by anytime. Nobody will even bother you.” My lips purse together on their own accord making him laugh lightly. “Yeah, okay, Beck will most definitely bother you but that’s just his personality. He’s got a great heart, bigger than people think.”

I don’t correct him that people probably imagine everything about Beckett is big. Instead I nod, giving a thin smile. With a wave, I leave Coty outside, returning to the refuge of my studio.

Dishes clean, I jump in the shower using extra shampoo to wash away the chlorine from last night. It may be the cheapest shampoo sold in stores but it still smells better than the more expensive brands. To me anyway. I’ll take the strong strawberry scent over the faintest of floral notes any day.

The memory of my mother’s overwhelming perfume alone makes me shudder. Luckily, I still haven’t heard from her which means one of two things: she’s plotting, waiting for the perfect moment to spring her bullshit on me, or she’s found someone new to pour her frenetic energy into. For now, at least. She’ll come around. She has no one else to blame, never herself certainly, so she’ll come looking for her favorite toy. Just like Drew predicted. When she does, she’ll try to tear down anything she can. My job, my hair, my new place, my new-

No.

I shake the thought away. I didn’t tell Drew about the nosey neighbors because it’d make them real. Tangible. And Rianne can’t reach what she doesn’t know about. What isn’t there. What will never be there.

My tiny studio doesn’t have a closet so I use an industrial-style clothing rack off to the side of my bed to hold the little bit of clothes I do have. It also adds a pop of color to the monochromatic scheme I’ve got going in the rest of the apartment.

Never wanting to wear my poorness on my threadbare sleeve, I hid it away beneath secondhand athletic clothes. People expect workout clothes to be worn, frayed, beat to shit. Yoga pants look like yoga pants, no matter how much money you spend on them. I think that’s why moms always wear them. They give the illusion you’ve got your shit together when really, it’s anybody’s guess what someone’s actually going through. Clothes should highlight a person’s interests, not define where they came from or where they’re trying to go.

Dressed for work in capris and a logo tee, with two French braids framing the sides of my head, I stroll downstairs, casually checking the boys’ balcony. Unsurprisingly, Coty’s still standing there like some kind of loyal watchdog. His arms rest against the railing and he’s still very much shirtless. And hot. Honestly, he’s just too tempting which most, if not all, females would agree on should I care to ask. A guy like Coty could, and probably does, get any girl he wants, yet he’s been pestering me since we met. Okay, I wouldn’t exactly call it pestering, but he’s working hard for the non-details I’ve been giving him. Indifference has been my approach but maybe that’s his thing. Maybe he likes the chase. The challenge.

The headfuck route is my mom’s game though, not mine. That’s how she managed to land four husbands and countless boyfriends before she’d let the façade slip away revealing who she really is—a cold, cruel woman looking to fill an insatiable hole ripped open when she was just a teenager. She’s never recovered from that first love with my sister’s dad and I doubt she ever will. She tried anything to get him, then everything to keep him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough and he left her anyway. She gave up the perfect mom act but not the perfect wife role. It became her addiction, to hook a man, then reel him in, only to end up being the one to eventually be released all over again. The vicious cycle is bad enough to put yourself through, but Rianne added a child to the process, one that got a front row seat to watch it play out like a bad movie repeatedly throughout a childhood that should’ve had stability and protection, rather than turmoil and neglect.

I may not fuck with guys’ heads but I’m not completely inexperienced in the dating realm. I’ve hooked up with a couple boys over the last year but none with anything extra attached. No stupid games, no irrelevant labels, no unnecessary expectations, no lovesick declarations, and certainly no introductions to family. Boys make better distant friends than girls. They don’t judge, they don’t pry, they don’t read between the lines, they don’t look below the surface if you don’t let them. It’s just…easier.

I’ve never wanted to keep anyone, friends or otherwise, around long enough to witness the shit show that is my life.

No, that was my life.

I’m not a part of that anymore.

I’ll never be a part of that.

I can’t.

I honk the horn twice at Coty, reversing from the curb and catch a glimpse of him just before speeding away. That sinful smirk plastered to his face should be illegal especially as he’s technically only a short distance from my bed. That image has me pressing on the gas a little harder than appropriate driving through a parking lot.

Once I’m settled back into my Jeep after picking up an iced tea from a nearby café, my phone rings. However, seeing the caller I.D. read UNKNOWN, I let it go to voice mail and mentally scroll through the people it could be. There’s only one real possibility. Only one person that would go through the trouble of blocking their number. My heart starts racing, so I gulp down as much tea as I can without causing a brain freeze. A couple squeezes of the steering wheel later, I’m as cooled down as I’m going to get.

Maybe it was a wrong number. Maybe she’s moved on with her life. Maybe she’s forgotten all about me already.

Maybe I’m lying through my cold-sensitive teeth.