Dax nods, remembering. “And that’s it?”
“Other than an ice-cream float, yeah. Usually, I’ll grab something at the bakery.”
“You need to take care of yourself. I have no idea how you’re still standing.”
I agree with him. “I know. It’s just been a tough few days.”
He huffs. “And yet I feel you always put yourself last when it comes to mealtimes?”
“Is this your way of saying I’m too skinny, Dax?”
“No, Jules. This is my way of saying you look malnourished.”
“I’ll not argue with that.” From the look that washes across Dax’s face, that is exactly what he expected me to do.
“Here, eat it all.” He slides a plate with a doorstopper sized sandwich across the counter. I don’t have the heart to tell him that eating all that will probably make me sick. My stomach is in knots.
Still, I take the plate. Dax lays the knife on top of his sandwich without cutting it and pours me a glass of orange juice. I take it gratefully and sip. I’m probably dehydrated, but I doubt that fact has escaped Dax’s attention. The way he scrutinises each sip from the glass suggests he suspects.
I take a tentative bite and let the flavours wash over my tongue. It’s delicious. A satisfied hum rumbles out from my closed lips and Dax smiles.
“I’ll be right back. No need to wait for me.”
I watch him walk to the stairs and leap up them two at a time. He eagerly pulls his way up, gripping the banister and heaving himself up for extra speed.
The childishness of his enthusiasm makes me smile until I realise why.
He’s running to her.
I inhale the damn sandwich and then spend ten minutes eyeing Dax’s greedily. After fifteen more tick by on the oversized wall clock, I check out rest of the room. I could drop my entire apartment inside and still have space left over. I’m so bored, or more accurately, I’m out of my depth, so I decide to distract myself and prove I’m right.
Back home, I can travel from one side of the apartment to the other in forty-eight steps. The narrowest width of Dax’s apartment is that and so much more. I count each pigeon step in my head.Sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight—
“What are you doing?”
“Sixty-nine,” I say aloud. The grin that lights Dax’s face is my only sign that I’ve said something wrong, but it’s his laughter that clicks it into place. My cheeks flush. I cross my arms and glare at him. “Well, fuck.”
“So, I hear but, sweetheart, you’re doing it wrong,” he teases.
“Steps! Sixty-nine steps, Dax.”
He stalks toward me, closing the gap between us. “Why areyou counting steps?”
“No reason.” I back away, circling the furniture to keep a distance between us.
“Just for the fun of it?”
I shrug. “Sure.” Or maybe it’s so that I know how many steps it is to get out of this room in the dark. That was my reason for learning at home. How many steps to get to the kids? How many back to the front door? Where do I turn? At what angle? All of these things are muscle memory for me now, but in a new place, I’ll have to learn again. Not that escape is my intention…or not consciously, anyway.
I run my hand along the back of the sofa. The leather is soft and supple beneath my hand. I imagine how comfortable it must be to sit on. I’ve not truly rested since getting up this morning but, instead of flopping down and risking not getting up, I head back to the stool and suck down the last of my orange juice.
Dax follows, grabbing his plate. Halving his sandwich, he takes the stool beside mine and deposits half of his food on my plate. He bites into his half clearing most of it in one go. I watch him chew until his lips stretch over the mouthful in a closed-lipped grin.
Something about watching him eat, the complete lack of pretentiousness as he chomps like a man starved, both settles and excites me. My mouth waters, but not for the food he shares so readily. Dax is the source of my hunger, and his refusal to explain anything is the source of my current frustration.
I stuff as much of the sandwich into my mouth as I can before I say or do something stupid.
“Good?” he asks, licking a smudge of mayonnaise from his cheek.
