His voice wasn’t loud. Actually, it was so quiet, I had to focus in on it in order to hear him over the thunder of my heartbeat.
“I saw the swelling had gone down,” he said, jaw tight, like he was working to keep his tone steady. “I just wanted to check that eye. That’s all.”
His words sank in. Penetrated my panic.
And slowly, the logic of them caught.
Embarrassment replaced fear so fast, I went from trying to crawl through the wall at my back to wishing it would swallow me whole.
“It’s okay,” he said from the other side of the bed. “Do you want some clothes? Would that make you feel better?”
He moved to the closet without waiting for my answer. “Maybe a dress? I see you’ve got a bunch—okay, okay. Doesn’t have to be a dress.”
I didn’t realize I was frantically shaking my head until he quickly closed the closet and started rummaging through the dresser.
He wouldn’t find anything.
The first thing Dennis did was get rid of my clothes. Jeans. Torn sweaters. Anything that looked like the me I’d curated during my ten years without him—gone.
The only reminders left were the old leather jacket and the orange coat hanging by the door.
“Fuck.” He straightened. “Nothing here.”
He looked up, apologetic. “I’ve got a couple extra shirts in my duffel. You’ll be swimming in them but?—”
I started nodding before he was even finished making the offer.
As scared as I'd been seconds ago, wearing this stranger's shirt felt like the easiest answer on a multiple-choice quiz.
He left the room—and came right back with a long-sleeve flannel bunched in his hand. One of those tops that could double as a jacket over a t-shirt if you needed it to.
He set it at the edge of the bed like a peace offering. Then turned his back. Like a patient gentleman.
Though, again, something told me he was neither of those things.
I lunged for the shirt anyway, the pulled it on and buttoned it up with clumsy fingers.
“Is it alright if I turn around now?” he asked. “Knock on the wall if it’s not.”
It wasn’t alright. Having those intense eyes on me made my nerves jangle.
But I didn’t knock.
He turned.
One side of his mouth hitched when he saw me kneeling on the bed in his way too large shirt. “You look good, sugar.”
Liar.
“Okay.” He nodded, as if he’d come to some sort of conclusion . “Breakfast can wait. I’m going to stand right here until you’re ready to either talk or come out and eat with me. As long as it takes. I’ll wait.”
Something cracked open in my chest. The graveyard shifted. He’d wait? For me? As long as it took?
I didn’t understand. Didn’t understand any of this. But he was right about me being hungry.
I tentatively moved forward, feeling more like a scared animal than a fifty-six-year-old woman as I edged across the bed and came to stand in front of him.
God.He was giant.
