Page 6 of Fragile hearts

He rattles the keys. “No, I was entering it. I have a key.”

I furrow my brows.

What the fuck is happening?

I’m wide awake, but my brain is not cooperating with me. I take a step back. Rubbing my hand over my face. “Okay, so you’re telling me. That you thought it was an amazing idea to break into my house—sorry, not breaking. Opening the door of my house in the middle of the night to bring me my suitcases.”

His eyes meet mine when he says casually, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Yes.”

I throw my hands in the air. “Are you insane? You scared the scrap out of me. I thought you were going to kidnap me!”

His eyes twitch, hands resting on his hips. “I already told you if I were planning on kidnapping you, I would have done it already.”

“Well, that makes me feel better.” Carson’s lip twitches as he shakes his head.

“Do you want your suitcases or not?”

“Yes, of course, I do.” I open my door, stepping aside as he places the suitcases inside with one arm. As if they weigh nothing. They weigh a ton. I carried them down the stairs from my old apartment into my car and almost twinged my back because of it.

Carson turns his back on me and starts to walk away. “Why in the middle of the night? Why didn’t you wait until tomorrow?”

He stops and stares at me from over his shoulder. “Because I wanted to.” He gives me one last look, then says, ”Good night, Sunshine.”

My mouth drops open as I close the door. That was the weirdest conversation I have ever had in my life.

Wait…Why does he have my key? No one is supposed to be able to get into my house.

I turn around to ask him, only to find him gone. My brows furrow as I try to come up with a logical explanation. But come up empty, I’ll ask the landlord tomorrow. Luckily Carson wasn’t an actual kidnapper.

I sigh, my gaze drifting between my suitcases and the staircase. My arms still burn from the last time I carried them. I take a deep breath and roll two suitcases to the staircase. The other one can stay downstairs since it’s full of kitchen supplies.

I try rolling them up first but realize it’s not going to work. Then I pull them, which goes better. I finally have them upstairs nearly an hour later. I flop down on my bed breathing heavily. Then sit up, my muscles groaning in protest. The adrenaline in my body is slowly wearing off, but I’m too wired to sleep.

The beige curtains flutter as a breeze enters my room. I open my suitcase that contains my clothes, then I grab the picture I’ve held countless times. It’s of Micah and me. We’re sitting on a couch, our heads pressed together, smiling at the camera. We weren’t living together. But our foster parents had let us hang out. My foster parent didn’t care. She wasn’t home much, so it was easy for me to sneak out. Micah, on the other hand, was living with a nicer family. Nothing spectacular happened that day. But we were together, and that was the important part.

I set the picture on my nightstand. Unpack my clothes and hang them in the closet, then crawl under my blanket. Close my eyes and whisper the words I say every night.

“Good night, Micah.”

I wake to the sound of a lawnmower. The high-pitched whirring infiltrates my ears. At first I think I’m dreaming, but it keeps continuing. Grumbling, I sit up, leaning against the headboard. Who would be crazy enough to mow their lawn at ten minutes past eight in the morning? It is way too early for that, especially after the night I had.

I’m still confused why Carson thought it would be a good idea to deliver my suitcases in the middle of the night. I’m glad I have them now, but I keep thinking why he was awake at that time. He should be sleeping like anyone else. Unless he works a night shift, that is the only explanation I can think of. But if that’s the case, he should be at work and not standing on my doorstep.

I get out of bed and blow the loose strands of hair out of my face. I didn’t have the energy to braid my hair last night, but I’m regretting it now. I hate to wear it down, especially in the summer. It always sticks to my face.

I open my backdoor. The grass rustles underneath my bare feet. A low wooden fence blocks my garden from my neighbors.

There is a half-naked man mowing my neighbor’s grass. He’s wearing black shorts and nothing else. He has his back turned to me. His bare back. His very muscled back. I’m standing twenty feet away from him, and I still see how much muscle he has. He turns around. Showing me his front. He doesn’t notice me. But I definitely see him. And the six-pack he has.

Holy shit.

I avert my gaze, staring at his face instead. The same face I saw yesterday when he picked up from the side of the road. The face I saw when he tried to break into my house.

Carson.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he calls, shutting off the lawnmower, sipping some water while running a hand through his brown waves.