Well, nothing but my own head.
Which is a dangerous place to be most of the time.
“Do you need anything?” He asks, lingering by the door.
“No, thank you,” I tell him, keeping my back to him as I begin to unpack my clothes onto the bed so I can put them away.
“Just call if you do,” He remains at the door, “I’ll be right here.”
And he will, I realize. I call, and he’ll come because Dean is good. Even with his job and the blood, and the death, Dean is a good man.
But still, I don’t turn to him, too afraid he’ll see it all on my face.
After a few long seconds, I hear him leave, listening to his steps as he takes himself downstairs, likely to work or something, so I distract myself by putting all my things into piles. When that’s done, I find homes for it all and start to line up my toiletries on top of the dresser across from the bed until my hand hits the cool metal of the toy.
I tuck that under my pillow.
I put everything away, then step back and look at the room. No color, no personality. The walls are bare, the furniture is missing that spark. My old room there were plants on shelves, their long green stems draping over the edges, fairy lights hidden in swaths of sheer lace, and art on the walls. I had clothes draped over the back of my chair and a million different cushions on the bed that always ended up on the floor, and a light that projected stars onto the ceiling at night. I listened to music and read, orI followed makeup tutorials on YouTube trying to get the best smokey eye look. I took hour long baths and sat in the rain. I added things to my collection that didn’t match, and had more throw blankets than I knew what to do with.
I don’t have any of that now.
Not here, and not at my house. Nothing of who I was exists anymore.
“Fuck,” I growl to myself, covering my face with my hands.
And you get to live.
But how do I do that when I’ve forgotten how to?
Chapter Twenty-nine
It’s been three days.
I never thought three days was a long time until right fucking now. She’s everywhere, in the shampoo left in the main bathroom and the new strawberry flavored yogurts in the fridge. She’s the thousands of hair ties lefteverywhere, and the half-finished bottle of wine. I smell her on the couch, the sugary scent of her perfume threaded into the fabric, and see her with the nail polishes left on the coffee table in the living room.
I don’t hate it. I don’t hate having her marks all over my place, it warms a spot inside of me I thought was to remain cold, but what it does is taunt me. She’s here, and yet she’s a million miles away.
As I switch the coffee machine on to make us both a brew, she comes into the kitchen, a towel wrapped around her head and a pair of tight leggings and an oversized tee on. She is fresh faced, the freckles on her face on full display, and she’s…singing.
I spot the earbuds in her ears a moment later.
She pays me no attention as she sings — more like shouts — the lyrics toBeautiful Thingsby Benson Boone and prepares herself some breakfast, seeming to not even realize I’m in the room with her.
She dances as she goes, pouring granola into a bowl before she crosses to the fridge for her yogurt. It’s the lightest I’ve ever seen her. Carefree.
It’s a damn beautiful sight.
She scoops several spoons of the yogurt into her bowl and begins to mix, continuing her singing until she places the spoon into her mouth and crosses back to the fridge to get the strawberries. She cuts them up and puts them in, finally taking the spoon from her mouth to pile a heap of her breakfast onto it.
Right before she puts it into her mouth, she belts the lyrics to the chorus, and even after she has a mouthful, she continues to hum.
This version of Sloane, this easy, free version, has every nerve ending inside my body reacting. I was attracted to her before, drawn to her, but now? Fuck, I’ll get down on my knees if I have to.
I want to know what has put her in this space, where anxiety isn’t controlling her every move and fear is a thought left for last.
She shimmies her body to the music in her ears as she eats her breakfast, and when she is finished, she places her bowl in the dishwasher and skips from the room, leaving me to stare after her. A moment later, her singing starts again, and when I look through to the living room, she has my daughter in her arms, and she’s dancing with her.
Fuck. I think I just fell in love.
