I start to pace.
Three steps one way, pivot, three steps back.
My identity is “Miss Chloe.” Kindergarten teacher. Lesson planner. Craft organizer. Ever since the island, my routine has been my salvation. Taking away this structure and focus leaves me with nothing.
There’s no “I need to prep for tomorrow’s class” to distract me. No myriad of tiny little chores and errands to occupy my mind and stave away the darkness.
There’s only the danger, the basement, and Kolya.
And wonderful sore spots I need to stop thinking about.
I can’t just stand here. I need to regain some sense of control.
I spot a pile of old blankets haphazardly stuffed onto a lower shelf. Pulling them out, I begin folding each one with methodical precision. After that, I straighten a stack of cardboard boxes and align their edges. Then I find an old rag and start wiping dust from a metal shelf, working in neat, overlapping strokes.
Kolya’s voice cuts through my concentration. “What are you doing?”
“Organizing.” I continue wiping, moving, doing. “Brenda’s basement is a disaster. Look at this.” I gesture to a collection of fondue pots piled in a corner. “Six. She has six fondue pots. For all her fondue emergencies.” I wander toward another shelf. “And…fourteen ceramic spoons. Who needs fourteen ceramic spoons? She’s a hoarder. I’m surprised we haven’t found a dead cat in here yet.”
I’m babbling, but that’s better than screaming, which is what I really want to do.
Kolya plays witness to my fussing, tracking my movements with his unnerving gaze. When I spin to work on a new shelf, I catch his lip twitching from the corner of my eye.
“You don’t have to just stand there. But I guess you can’t exactly do anything else, can you?” I dust the shelf faster, more frantically. “Which means I can’t do anything but feel you watching me. All the time. And last night is still…” I stop, suddenly aware of what I’m about to say.
The constant throbbing between my legs is a big distraction, a reminder of last night. And I want more.
Absurd.
Every rational cell in my body screams,Run!
If only I could.
My life has become a made-for-TV thriller, except I don’t have the luxury of a commercial break.
I drag a box from under a shelf, sneeze at the dust cloud that rises, and busy myself with manic cleaning.
“You’re just waving the dust around.”
“Shut up.”
Kolya shifts position, shoving his sleeves up his forearms. A scar snags my attention, a jagged line about three inches long on his left forearm, pale against his olive skin.
“That looks nasty.” I nod toward the scar. “Football?” I joke. I don’t know much about Kolya, but I’ll eat that box of Christmas ornaments for breakfast if he’s a sports guy.
He doesn’t answer at first, clearly pondering how much of himself to reveal.
I’ve crossed some invisible line by prying into his personal life. “I was just making small talk. You don’t have to tell me.” I pretend to focus on a particularly disgusting shelf.
After a long moment, his reply slices through the space. “Not football.”
I’m desperate to ease the tension. “Not a sewing accident either. Right?”
His mouth twitches again with that almost-smile.
The tiny crack in his stone facade startles me. I smile back hopefully, but his almost-smile vanishes.
I duck my head, praying he won’t clock my disappointment.
