“Of course.”
When I sat up, I let the sheet fall down to my waist, hoping to evoke some kind of reaction from him. Instead of the reaction I was hoping for, he let go of my hand, and I felt the mattress shift as he moved away.
“Phillipe?” I called, hating that my voice cracked.
“Yes, Chantel?”
Faced with the moment to tell him anything, anything that might bring him back to me, I found that I was not as brave as I wanted to be, so I remained silent.
“What time do you want to leave?” he asked.
I could tell he was walking away, moving toward the door.
“As soon as I get dressed?” I said softly.
“Okay. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
“Phillipe?”
“Yes?” Again, his voice was patient but detached.
I wanted to scream at him.
“I don’t want to be anywhere but with you. You know that, right?”
I never got an answer. He’d already left the room.
Several days later, I pull out my laptop and place the journal beside me in bed. I haven’t been sleeping very well. Too many questions and too many thoughts keep swirling through my mind, and I can’t seem to block them out, not even by shutting my eyes.
I still can’t quite wrap my mind around what exactly happened a few nights before.
Things have changed—Phillipehas changed—and for the first time in his presence, I feel frightened. Up until now, I have been wary, suspicious, and careful around him, but I have never felt the overwhelming need to protect myself from him that I did that night. Right on the cusp of that fear is also the sharp, jagged edge of persistent desire.
It’s been days, and I know he’s avoiding me. Still, I can feel my body starting to throb at the thought of him.
Annoyed at myself and my traitorous body that seems to continually betray me, I turn on my laptop and lean back against the headboard, settling in to do something I told myself I would not do while I was here. I search the namePhillipe Tibideau.
He came and got me several minutes later, just like he said he would. Once again, though, he was silent. I hated the silence because I couldn’t see his face to gauge his mood.
He took my hand as we were about to head downstairs.
“Phillipe, talk to me,” I insisted.
He stopped. “What do you want me to say, Chantel?”
“I don’t know, but not talking to me isn’t going to fix things.”
“I can’t explain how I feel,” he softly told me.
I stepped closer to him and raised my hand. He took my palm and placed it on his cheek.
“Tell me,” I whispered.
“No, Chantel. I’m okay,” he assured me, his voice strained.
“You’re not. You’re hurting. Tell me why. Is it because of my parents? I already told you?—”
“No,” he replied, placing a finger to my lips. “No, it’s not your parents. It’s me.”
