But unlike last time when I was careful to keep my distance from him while entering, I touch him.
Well actually, I bump his chest with my shoulder as I pass him by.
Because I’m angry and I want him to feel it.
His only reaction though is a soft inhale, like he’s smelling me or something.
But I refuse to think about it.
I refuse to think about him taking a whiff of me or how heated his body felt or how long it’s been since I touched him.
I absolutely refuse to wonder about anything related to him anymore.
But I break that promise a second later when I get my first look at his room.
I halt in my tracks and run my eyes across the space that I’ve been in so many times. The space that I remember every inch of.
It has always been so clean and organized and neat.
Right now though, it’s the opposite of that.
Sheets are crumpled; pillows are strewn about. His gray blanket lies on the floor as if he’s had a fight with it and threw it away in disgust. Discarded clothes make a tiny hill by the bathroom door.
And there are books.Everywhere.
On the bed; on the floor.
Some are wide open; some are closed. Some are stacked together in a large pile on the desk and in his slim-backed chair.
Since when does he read books?
Since when does he not clean his room?
“What happened?” I breathe out, looking around, my heart picking up speed.
“I just… didn’t clean up. Wasn’t expecting company,” he says from behind me and I spin around to face him.
He’s by the door, standing with his feet apart and his fists clenched, watching me.
“Since when do you not clean up?”
“Since my therapist said that I might have a mild case of OCD,” he replies. “She wants me to embrace the chaos.”
“Your therapist?” I breathe out, thinking of all the times he implied that he hated going to her. “The one… you don’t like.”
His eyes flick back and forth between mine. “I think I was a little hasty in my judgement.”
“So you like her now?”
“I’m still deciding.”
I look around the room again, feeling stunned. “Did she also tell you to read books?”
He narrows his eyes. “No, she told me to get a life.” I frown and he continues, “Apparently, I don’t have one. Well, if youdon’t count soccer. And having a life involves a thing called hobbies. She told me to pick one.”
“So you picked reading?”
“It would appear so, yes.”
