Typical Monday. Yet my life is now anything but typical.
15
Brynn
Supposedly the truthwill set you free, but I didn’t know it could also open up a well in your soul, allowing you to go deeper and feel more.
I’m walking a tightrope of emotions. Too far to one side and I’ll never get to experience Connor the way I want to. Too far to the other and I’ll abandon my plans to some unknown detriment.
I’ve been thinking about that almost constantly for the past two weeks. Probably since the moment I woke up in Connor’s bed that first morning.
This far removed from my old life, it’s too easy to think maybe there isn’t that much danger after all. Distance was what I needed. Maybe it’s what Eric Prince needed too. If I’m not there to threaten, he’ll give up. Can’t terrorize a person who’s no longer available.
Every day that passes, the line becomes more and more blurred.
I’m pretty sure it’s all Connor’s fault. Why does he have to be so easy to like? Why does he have to have a crooked grin that I only see on his face when he’s inside me? If I’d never let my guard down and allowed that to happen, his crooked grin would be a secret. A secret sex smile. That’s what he has, and just knowing that I know that about him makes my chest do this warm, tingly thing.
This is why each day is getting more difficult. How am I supposed to stay the course when Connor is now on it too? It’s like I’m trying to drive the getaway car and he has tossed tacks on the road, like some kind of cartoon. Which is obviously a terrible analogy, considering I no longer drive.
Connor will be here soon to pick me up for our double-date with Anthony and Julia. Dinner at some bar and grill place. Bowling. Things normal people do on a Saturday night. I’m not kidding myself though. I’m still not normal. Normal people’s hearts don’t race when they drive over speed bumps.
But I’m trying. Connor is patient with me. He doesn’t challenge the quiet that takes me over at times. When I go off in my own mind, he doesn’t try to bring me back. I know he wants to, and I also know he’s not sure if he should try. The problem is, I’m not sure if he should try either.
I’m ready early, so I go visit Walt.
Usually he opens his door before I have a chance to knock, but tonight I have to bang on it twice.
My fist is raised for a third and much more insistent knock when he shouts from inside, “I’m coming, I’m coming. Keep your pants on.”
He opens the door. There is blood on his forehead, and I can’t tell how big the wound is because the blood is smeared. It’s darker around the edges, like it has begun to dry. “Walt, what happened?” I reach out but curl my fingers back in.
He opens the door all the way and retreats into his home. Stepping in, I shut the door with my foot and follow Walt to the kitchen.
He stands at the open fridge, pulling out different items. Bags of deli meat, cheese, a loaf of bread, and lettuce. He tosses each one by one on the counter, and leans back down to search for something. After a moment he grabs a jar of pickles and stands, shutting the refrigerator door.
“Want a sandwich?” he asks, shuffling over to the counter.
“No thanks. Are you going to tell me what happened to your forehead?”
He ignores me, attempting to open the jar of pickles. When it doesn’t open he sets it down too hard on the counter and growls. It’s a gravelly, bearish sound. I hear the frustration behind it.
“Walt?” I come up to stand beside him at the counter and gently elbow him out of the way. “Let me do it.”
“I’m not helpless, you know.” Still, he walks away and sits in a chair at his little kitchen table.
“I never said you were.” The lid twists away from the pickle jar with apop. “Although you are kind of being an asshole today.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters.
“Do you want tomato on your sandwich?”
“Yes.” After a moment he adds, “please.”
I assemble the sandwich and place it in front of him, then go back to the fridge and take out a cold can of beer.
“Do you want this? Might be refreshing.”
He nods, his mouth full, and I crack the top. I slide it over to him and take a seat across from him.
