I toss the remote on the couch between us. “You start a fight with me and then ignore me like I don’t matter in this equation.”
“There is no equation. There’s me, my apartment, and the baseball game on TV. Then there’s you burning shit down per usual and then acting like it doesn’t matter to me.”
“I said I’m sorry for lighting the candle.” I try to keep myself from reacting to his anger. He has a right to be mad. He doesn’t have a right to ignore me. “I’ll pay for it. Then you’ll have your money back.”
He laughs, like infuriatingly loud, and then drinks more beer. “I have a strong feeling that you don’t have a hundred K lying around.”
I look at it again, making sure we’re talking about the same one. “For that?” I ask, pointing at it.
“Forget it.” He clicks on the TV again. I see his eyes home in on the tiny Eiffel Tower. I’m regretting leaving it there now. Of course, I didn’t know he was going to be upset over a candle, though I should have. “Great. He’s already hit, and I missed a homer.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve knocked it out of the park of assholery in your very own living room.” I walk back to the bedroom without hearing another word from him. I go into the bathroom and grab the glass I left next to the tub and swallow the remainder.
When I walk into the bedroom again, he’s standing in the other doorway. The black eye is already changing from purple and blue to green and yellow, healing moreeach day. His cast is still pristine like it was just put on today. Last night I was kissing his shoulder, where there is more bruising, but the scratches are almost healed. There’s so much broken—from his arm to his skin—but I’m starting to wonder how he’s doing on the inside. “How was your day?” I ask, whispering between us.
I see the slightest tilt of his head and the way his shoulders loosen under the question. “It was good to be back at work again. But I had some issues come up with my emails.”
My day was better with him in it.Until now, that is.I missed him. Not sure how that’s even possible to be this lovesick over someone so quickly, but it just hit hard.
“That’s good.”
“What?”
Moving my eyes to the floor in front of me, I sit on the end of the mattress. “What?”
“You said it was good I had email issues.”
“Oh, sorry you had issues. My thoughts had wandered away.” And into the ache in my heart that’s pulsing for his touch and the comfort has presence brings me.
“Delaney?”
I’m not sure if he meant my name as a question, but it sure sounded like one. I stare at him, feeling confident he’ll finish it. Seconds pass, trapping us in an uncomfortable silence. I can’t stand it. I’m used to noise, my rowdy brothers, and my parents joining in on the laughter. Even when Joe moved out, he’s still there all the time. Silence doesn’t sit well with me. It’s unsettling like I’m in trouble. “Am I in trouble?”
“Why would you be in trouble, Delaney?”
“Why do you keep saying my name like there’s more to what’s being said?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, rolling his head over his shoulders as he comes into the room. “Maybe because I expect you to break my legs when I’m sleeping with all the shit you’ve been pulling.”
The insult sends me to my feet, ready to defend myself. “Are you comparing this past weekend to the plot ofMisery?”
“If the shoe fits, sweetheart. Didn’t you once say that to me?”
Throwing my arms out wide, ready for this fight, I yell, “Everybody freaking says that, Warner.” Still staring at him, I add, “You’ve even said it to me.”
“This is what you do, Delaney. You twist the narrative to fit a story that’s in your head. You argue with no other goal in mind than to wear me down. It works most times because the hurricane that is you sucks so much energy from the room that it’s left devastated after you’ve gone.”
“You missing me when I leave doesn’t sound so awful.”
He laughs, but there’s an edge of frustration to it. “There’s a prime example.” Taking a deep breath, I can see the change in his body, the ease he’s forcing into his posture, and the anger morphing into something else.Disappointment?He comes to me, takes my hand, and then leans down eye level with me. “Don’t ever mess with my business again.”
Jocelyn . . . She snitched on me the first chance she got, bright and early on Monday morning. I can’t blame her, though I need to blame someone right now, and she’s the lucky candidate. Looking him square in the eyes, which seems to be important to him, I reply, “Understood.”
“Good.” He leaves the room, and says, “I’m ordering pizza. What toppings do you want?”
I’m still a bit stunned to the spot but manage to reply. “Pepperoni.”
“That’s all?”
