Total pages in book: 225
Estimated words: 218500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1093(@200wpm)___ 874(@250wpm)___ 728(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 218500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1093(@200wpm)___ 874(@250wpm)___ 728(@300wpm)
When I’m back, she’s still curled up on the couch, eyes open now and pointed at the fireplace. I grab the fireplace remote and start it up, so she’s got something to stare at. She now wears a face full of regret.
And I feel an unpleasant twinge in my chest.
“I’ll get you there,” I say. “I promise.”
And I mean that. I’ll get her to a place where eye contact will mean I get her smiles, her promises, sweet words.
I turn the microwave on and when it beeps, pull out the warm taco shells. I heat up the meat, and carry the whole platter to the coffee table in front of the couch she’s on. She’s filled the compartments with salsa, cheese, sour cream, and one with shredded lettuce and diced tomato. I fetch a bottle of beer and join her at the couch, setting my plate on the table. She bends her legs to make room for me.
“There’s taco sauce in the fridge. And squeezable guac,” she says.
“Mm, good. Want anything?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
I go get them and ask, “Mind if I catch the news?”
She shakes her head again.
I flick the television on and dig in, putting away four tacos. She’s asleep after my third. Looking angelic.
When I’m done with my food, I wash and put away my plate and the platter. I sit down again, take her ankles, and put them in my lap so her legs are stretched out. She doesn’t stir.
A while later, I’m lifting her up and her eyes pop open. She looks disoriented.
“Fell asleep on the couch, baby. Gonna tuck you in.”
“I can walk,” she says.
“But you don’t have to, do you?” I ascend the stairs with her.
When I put her on the bed, I kiss her on the temple. “Be with you in a minute. Grabbin’ a shower and have to make a couple calls.”
She doesn’t answer, so I flick the lamp off and go shower.
When I join her in bed a while later, she’s now under the covers and seems like she’s out again. I pull her into my arms. She snuggles into me and lets out a sweet little sigh. She’s sound asleep so it’s not a sound she’s aware she’s making. But it’s mine. Like her.
It’s a happy sound even though I know she’s not happy. I know she’s holding my actions against me, still, but I’m also sure that she’s gonna get where she needs to be.
I can’t seem to fall asleep for hours. Because I can’t wait to see if her eyes are gentler in the morning. But I’m also afraid they won’t be. She didn’t fight me tonight. She made me dinner. She wasn’t entirely open, but she was more open than she has been. The most she’s been since the first night I spent with her. The idea that it could be like that again? Like that all the time? I can’t wait to see if this is a turning point. But if it isn’t, I know I’m closer than I was yesterday. Maybe today alone was good for her. Maybe I should give her some space tomorrow, too.
I’m finally able to drift off thinking I’m looking forward to tomorrow night, to seeing if she’s happy to see me, if she’s made food again.
I wake up alone and immediately face an onslaught of my own guilt with a heavy dose of mortification. Rolling over to the middle of the bed, I stare at the ceiling, giving myself a moment with my shame.
I can’t believe I let him jump me when he got home. And I felt a little palpitation when he came in because I was kind of hoping he’d jump me. So stupid. Why? After everything? Why?
I was thinking about him all evening as I busied myself making dinner, wandering around the house, the yard. Running the vacuum after the movers tracked some dirt in. They came a few hours before Derek got in and I had them load all my things into one of the bedrooms on the second floor. Clothes, my desk and bookshelves. The sofa bed from my office. Boxes marked with the contents of each. Boxes of kitchen stuff. I don’t know what’s in any of them; I’m not about to unpack or have a look. Because what would that say about my opinion on this situation? At least I have access to the rest of my toiletries; I made sure the box I noted said Chloe Steele, bathroom didn’t get buried.
Chloe Steele. I’m sure if Adam was home when those movers packed and marked my belongings, seeing that name in the black Sharpie block letters must have stung. Or maybe it didn’t. There was even a woman as part of the crew, for packing my personal things. And that seemed like something my thoughtful, possessive, swoony psycho stalker would do.