Under His Roof

CHAPTER III

The sting of Zeke’s words kept me frozen on the runner long after the light in the den flickered out.

What had I done?

I retreated back up the stairs on silent feet, my toes numb against the wood.

Back in the narrow guest room, I pulled the floral quilt up to my chin and stared at the water stain on the ceiling, tracing its brown outer ring with my eyes until the shape blurred.

I searched every memory I had of Zeke Bennett. It felt like trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing under murky water.

There was the summer camp eight years ago, the one our parents forced us into because my father was trying to look relatable to his local business partners.

I remembered the red dirt, the heat, the humidity sticking to the back of my neck.

I remembered Zeke sitting alone on the fence post, wearing a baseball cap, watching everyone with an expression that said he would rather be anywhere else on earth.

I remembered complaining about the mud, yes.

I remembered keeping my distance because he looked like a storm cloud waiting to burst.

But what did I do?

I turned onto my side, the unfamiliar springs of the mattress groaning under my weight.

Did I ruin a project? Did I say something offhand that got back to him?

I couldn't remember a single specific conversation we had ever finished.

To me, he was just the moody kid who scowled whenever my dad’s shiny car pulled up to the curb.

But to him, I was a villain in a story I didn't even realize I was part of.

Sleep didn't come easily.

Every time I drifted off, the image of my mother’s pale face in the library flashed behind my eyelids, followed by the terrifying sight of my banking app flashing red.

When morning finally broke, light leaked through the thin cotton curtains, painting the small room in pale yellow hues.

Downstairs, the house was already waking up.

I heard the clatter of pans, the low rumble of the radio playing local morning news, and the heavy thud of work boots hitting the floorboards near the front entryway.

I dressed slowly, choosing the simplest clothes I had packed: plain black leggings and a T shirt.

No jewelry. No designer handbag.

Standing in front of the small mirror above the dresser, I looked stripped down, like a blank canvas waiting for someone to paint a completely different person over top of me.

I crept down the stairs, hoping to slide into the kitchen unnoticed, but Mrs. Bennett was already at the stove, flipping eggs in an iron skillet.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she said warmly, her back turned to me. "Sleep alright?"

"It was fine, thank you," I lied smoothly, leaning against the doorframe.

"Help yourself to coffee," she gestured toward a glass pot sitting on the counter. "Zeke brewed it before he left for the garage."

My hand hovered over the glass handle.

Left for the garage.

So he had a job.

Of course he did.

He wasn't sitting around waiting for his life to start like I was.

"Is he working today?" I asked, trying to sound indifferent as I poured a splash of black liquid into a mismatched ceramic mug.

"Every day except Sunday," Mrs. Bennett replied, sliding two eggs onto a plate and handing it to me. "He's trying to save up for his own place, plus helping us out with the shop. He works hard. Harder than he should have to at nineteen."

She sat down across from me with her own mug, watching me with a gentle, questioning gaze.

"Daphne, your mother told me you were taking a gap year before college. Have you thought about what you want to do while you're here?"

The question hung in the air like smoke.

My gap year was supposed to be spent in Europe, bouncing between Paris, Milan, and a villa in Tuscany while I "found myself."

Now, sitting in a kitchen that smelled of bacon grease and old floor polish, the question sounded almost absurd.

"I haven't really thought about it," I admitted, staring down at the yellow yolk on my plate. "Everything happened so fast."

"I know, honey," she said softly, reaching out to cover my hand with hers.

Her skin was rough, calloused from years of hard work, entirely unlike my mother's soft, lotion scented palms.

"Take a few days to get your bearings. But staying busy helps. Trust me on that."

After breakfast, I couldn't stay in the house.

The walls felt like they were slowly closing in on me.

I put on a jacket and stepped out onto the front porch, pulling the crisp morning air deep into my lungs.

Cedar Ridge looked completely different in the daylight.

The houses were older, their paint peeling slightly around the window frames, but there were manicured flower beds in almost every yard.

A neighbor two doors down was raking leaves into a neat pile.

A mail carrier walked briskly along the sidewalk, sliding envelopes into metal boxes.

It was mundane, predictable, and terrifyingly real.

I walked down the wooden steps and headed down the driveway, intending to just walk around the block to clear my head.

As I reached the street, a dark pickup truck pulled up to the curb, its engine idling with a rough, metallic rattle.

The driver's side window rolled down, revealing Zeke.

His dark hair was messy, sticking out beneath a plain black beanie, and his jaw was shadowed with fresh stubble.

He was wearing a grease stained jacket.

He didn't look angry today.

He just looked exhausted, his gray eyes fixing on me with that familiar, impenetrable stare.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice low and grating against the morning quiet.

"Just taking a walk," I said, holding my arms around my chest against the breeze.

"Don't go past Fourth Street," he said, turning his gaze back to the road ahead. "Neighborhood gets rough down there. You'll stick out like a sore thumb."

"I know how to take care of myself, Zeke," I replied, my pride flaring up despite my best efforts to keep my composure.

He let out a short, breathy sound that wasn't quite a laugh.

He shifted the truck into gear, the transmission grinding slightly under his touch.

"Right. Because you've had to do that so many times before."

Before I could fire back a response, he stepped on the gas, the truck pulling away with a cloud of gray exhaust that lingered in the cool air between us.

I stood on the sidewalk, watching his red taillights disappear around the corner.

My teeth dug into the inside of my lip until I tasted copper.

He thought he knew everything about me.

He thought I was just a plastic doll who had never felt pain, never faced a real problem, never had to fight for anything.

And maybe he was right about the past.

Maybe I had been spoiled, blind, and self absorbed.

But as I looked down at my sneakers touching the cracked pavement of Cedar Ridge, I realized something else.

Whatever Zeke thought I did to him all those years ago, I was going to figure it out.

Because if I was going to survive in his world, I couldn't let him keep holding all the power.