Free You and Everything After by Ginger Scott Page B

move, and I may be blowing any future strategy , as Paige would say, but I smile and let my eyes light up anyway, because Ty is actually doing it—he’s earning me, like I’m something to be earned. “I’d like that,” I say.
    He nods in response, like it’s no big deal, but I also hear him exhale heavily, and I can tell asking me made him nervous. I make him nervous. And I like that, too.

Chapter 6

 
    Ty

 
    I have never done a load of laundry in my entire life. Not once. Ever. Nate calls it my gift, my one super power.
    Mom always takes care of it when we’re home. It’s her thing. She always says she loves the smell—the way the fabrics feel when she pulls them from the dryer—and the warmth. I get it. When I was a kid, I used to love tagging along with her while she did the weekend chores, and we’d always end up in the laundry room. I would sit in the corner, in the basket filled with freshly dried towels, and eat a bowl of grapes. Something about the dryer sheets lulled me to sleep. To this day, when I’m at home, Mom practically bakes my blanket and pillowcases in the dryer, and I swear to god I sleep like a damned baby.
    You think my addiction to the smell of warmed lavender would be enough to learn how the whole process works. But as much as I love the end result, I absolutely loathe the manual-labor part of laundry. It’s just so…tedious! It’s not like dishes or vacuuming, not that I do any of that often either, but at least when you do the dishes, it’s done…in like…fifteen minutes. Or you put them in a machine and just come back later and pull the dishes out when you need them. Laundry, though—laundry requires waiting. And carrying. And folding. And sorting.  
    While I was in Florida, I was usually able to get someone to do my laundry for me. Nate’s taken care of it for the last month, throwing my laundry in with his. He says I’m so good that I even have him trained. I know he’d do it again. I know he’d do it every week, for the rest of the semester. But I just saw Cass go into the laundry room, and suddenly here I am, halfway down the hall with a full basket of laundry in my lap.
    “Hey, fancy meeting you here!” I shut my eyes and release a breathy laugh when I hear myself speak. I’m so fucking lame.
    “Oh, hey,” Cass says, jumping at my voice. She’s sorting her laundry, so I pause and watch.
    She’s wearing tiny running shorts and this thin T-shirt that makes me want to toss water on it just to watch it stick to her skin. We haven’t really talked much since our training session a couple days ago. I have a feeling she thinks I’m freaked out because she told me about her MS. But I’m not. I haven’t gone to see her because every time I do, I want to kiss her. But then I think about her one stipulation, and I wonder if me—and all of my crap —won’t find a reason to hurt her once I’m done. That would be the end of it, too. No more training sessions, no more not-so-random laundry room run-ins. I don’t think I want to be done with that.
    I’m starting to realize there’s a difference between wanting her and needing her. Problem is, I’m victim to both. I want her, God do I want her. But lately, I need her too. I like needing her. It feels…I don’t know. It just feels. But if I blow one side of the deal, I’ll lose the other. It’s a delicate balance, and kissing her—that would tip the scales for good.
    “Right, so I just shove all the clothes in this one and then pour in…what? Like, two cups of this stuff?” I’m not even close. Even I know this much. But I thought it would be better to play full dumbass rather than have her see me flounder and look foolish for real.
    “Uh, yeah, if you want to repeat that episode of the Brady Bunch where Bobby floods the laundry room with bubbles,” she says, giggling and taking the full cup of soap from my hand, pouring almost half of it back in the bottle.
    “That’s a classic,” I say, making my