More lies, but I can’t exactly tell her the truth. It puts her in danger.
ME: I’m at an Airbnb trying to write. It’s the host.
MATILDA: that’s hot. Send me a pic of him!
ME: No! Weirdo.
Me: maybe it’s just a crush.
MATILDA: Exactly. Don’t be so hard on yourself.
ME: how’s France?
MATILDA: Le terrifique! I miss you. Are you at the Airbnb for Christmas? Where should I send your gift?
I snap a quick picture of the snow-filled yard and send itto her.
ME: I don’t think I even get mail up here. Maybe send it to Dad’s.
MATILDA: where the fuck are you????
ME: Somewhere near Seattle. Long story. Can we FaceTime soon?
MATILDA: only if I get to see the hot host
ME: Deal.
Just as I suspected,in the morning, Gable acts like his usual moody self. As he makes his morning coffee and I prepare to take Motor for a walk, there’s no acknowledgment of the nothing we shared the night before. Maybe I was overthinking the whole thing. I tend to do that.
After showering and dressing warmly, I pull on my coat, sit on the bed, and lace my boots. Then I make the mistake of lying down and closing my eyes. I wrote close to ten thousand words after Gable went to bed, my mind alight with ideas and excitement, but now that light is officially out and I’m ready for sleep.
But the bedroom door flies open.
“Drill!” Gable bellows, and I sit up.
He’s wearing a mask this time. A knitted black one so I can only see his eyes—and it isn’t fear that has my heart racing.
It’s something else.
My cheeks heat, and I crawl under the duvet, hoping tohide how flushed I am. “Oh my God, Gable, what are you doing? Go away!”
He starts pinching me through the covers. “I’m dead. The house is compromised. What do you do?”
“Rejoice in the fucking silence!” I screech, just as he snatches the covers off me. His eyes are piercing, even against the dark material of the mask, and I hold my breath.
“You’re all alone, Gibson, and you’re about to die!”
“Then take me, Jesus!”
I squeal as he seizes my hips and throws me over his shoulder. Motor dances around us, barking excitedly. “I’m taking you downstairs to kill you. What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I hate you.” He smacks my ass and I jolt. “Gable!”
“Fight me off, Gibson, otherwise you die.”
He pinches the back of my thigh, and I growl. I’m tired. I want to nap and think about my book and impending doom, not run fucking drills.
Fuck. This.
