Finding Mayhem

by Layla Frost

“You got another truck coming with furniture and shit?” “What do you mean?” I gestured to all the lace doilies, floral everything, vintage fabrics, and creepy bear tchotchkes. “This is my stuff.” Hollywood didn’t laugh at my attempt at a joke. And it was a joke because the furniture in the house was older than me and ugly as sin. But crazily enough, it was like he could see the emotion swirling in my stomach until I wanted to vomit worse than when I’d had morning sickness. There was that same softness in his gaze. It irked me. “I’m getting new stuff,” I told him so he’d stop looking at me like that. “I’m using what’s here until I pick it out.” It was his turn to joke as he ran a large hand over the plastic-covered couch. “At least your aunt kept her furniture fresh.” When he looked at me, though, there was something in his blue eyes. An edge. “You two close?” I thought about lying. It’d be easier than fielding follow-up questions. But I kept it simple and told him the truth. “She was a stranger.” I may not have known him, but I was good at reading people. It was my job and my lifeline. I saw the way his shoulders loosened at my answer. How a hint of a smile pulled at his lips. It was guarded, but my answer had brought him some sense of relief. I just wasn’t sure why. I also didn’t really care.