“It’s fine. Just the ointment is good. I don’t want to wrap my hand because it’s a pain. I use them too much. It would probably only last for an hour before I get annoyed and have to take it off.”
“Okay.” I disinfect the wound with a sterile swab from a packet then apply the ointment with a cotton ball. It’s not because I’m against touching Wilder, but rather, skin-on-skin contact is bad for wounds, and my hands aren’t as sterile as the cotton.
His hands are manly and veiny. Huge. I’m not sure if the correlation between hands and…uh…also never mind. It’s probably just an old wives tale. Anyway, there’s no way I can enjoy his hand because it looks all road rashy and horrible, and I’m to blame for it, which sucks. The guilt I’m feeling settles in my stomach like a pound of meat that just won’t fully digest. As an FYI, I and steak don’t get along well, especially when it’s well done. There was a time when my mom cooked a steak until it was basically like eating an old boot, but we all ate it anyway because we wanted to be nice about it and not hurt her feelings. However, afterward, my tummy really, really hurt, and I think it probably took a full month for that sucker to digest.
When I’m done, Wilder sticks his hand back. He turns his head slowly, like an owl or something, and surveys the living room. Most of Pappy S’s furniture is still in the house, and it’s easy to see that he liked big, comfy, faux leather pieces. In the living room, a couch and a love seat, a large reclining chair, end tables, an ancient coffee table, and a huge TV make up the whole space. The TV is also Pappy S’s because I hardly ever watch it.
“This place is huge,” Wilder says, which I think is a compliment.
“Look,” I start. I have to get it out sometime, so it might as well be now. “I know you’re probably in league with my great-grandpa about coming here. He’s trying to set me up and get me settled. And he thinks getting me a roommate for this reason or that reason will actually help. It’s like a messed-up dating service, but I’m not interested. I’m happy by myself. So just tell me the truth, because it will be easier for you. Are you in league with him?”
Wilder’s expression blanks out. I don’t know him well enough to know if he’s a good liar, but most people, sadly enough, usually are. He does look me in the eye, though, so that’s something. “I’m just here because there was an ad for a room to rent, and I needed a place to stay for six months or so. We own a business up north, and we’re thinking about maybe starting up operations down here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. That’s it. I just…I’m not looking to be involved with any sorting of dating service. Um…just the room would be fine. And if we could at least get along, maybe even become friends? It might be easier too.”
I sigh. He doesn’t stick out his hand for a shake, and I’m glad for it. I hate shaking people’s hands, so maybe I do have a problem with touch. I don’t like getting close to strangers, as it makes me uncomfortable. My friends? Yeah, we do hug. My family? We hug too. I know I’m not broken. I just happen to really like my personal space.
“Okay. I’m sorry about the…uh…well, the room. There’s actually one down the hall that’s all ready to go. I just…I’m sorry. You…it wasn’t you. It was Pappy S. That is, my great-grandpa. If he would just stop playing matchmaker and worrying about me, it would be easier for everyone. Sorry that you basically walked into a trap. It wasn’t your fault, and I’ll try and be nicer from now on.”
Wilder shrugs like all of this is okay with him. I wonder if he’s really that easygoing or if he’s just trying to make an effort. He’s probably trying to make an effort since hot guys usually aren’t very easygoing. They don’t know how to have downtime because they’re too busy being hot and living the life that usually goes with that, though I might be stereotyping a little here.
#sorrynotsorrybecauseI’vebeenburnedbeforeandgettingburnedisnofun.
Whatever. Making an effort is better than nothing, and I do appreciate it. If I were Wilder, I’d be pretty pissed right about now.
“So, how many animals do you have? And please tell me there’s only one spider.”
“Yeah, there’s only one, and I really didn’t let him out of his cage. He really is an escape artist.”
Wilder visibly shudders. “If I see him around, I promise to just run screaming at the top of my lungs and not turn him into a pancake. But if he accidentally gets on me, I can’t promise anything. The meltdown might be epic and immediate and uncontrolled.”