I stay on the floor and listen to her moving around downstairs.
The walls are back up. I saw it happening in real time in her face, brick by brick, the moment her eyes met mine.
Good, I tell myself. That's how it should be.
I push to my feet and my back screams in protest, every muscle stiff from sleeping on hardwood.
Worth it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ihate that I know how he takes his coffee.
Black. No sugar. Just a splash of cream. Barely enough to change the color.
I hate that I've been watching him long enough to memorize it, that somewhere in the back of my mind I've catalogued this stupid detail along with all the others I wish I could forget.
Like the way he runs his hand through his hair when he's frustrated. Or how his jaw tightens when he's holding something back. Or the exact shade of green his eyes turn when he's angry.
I hate all of it.
But I make the coffee anyway.
Two mugs. One black with cream for him. One with sugar for me because I'm not a masochist who drinks battery acid first thing in the morning.
I set his mug on the counter without looking at him, without saying anything.
He's leaning against the doorframe, still wearing yesterday's clothes, his hair a mess from sleeping on a hardwood floor like an idiot.
Because he was protecting me.
No. Not going there.
"Coffee's ready."
He moves to the counter and picks up the mug, bringing it to his mouth before he stops.
I can feel him looking at me, can feel the weight of whatever he's thinking.
Don't say it. Don't acknowledge it. Don't make this a thing.
He takes a sip. Says nothing.
But we both know.
I made it exactly how he likes it. Without asking. Without him telling me. Because apparently, I'm pathetic enough to remember.
I turn away and focus on my own coffee, adding more sugar than I need just to have something to do with my hands.
Last night I was a total mess.
Crying into his chest. Letting him hold me. Asking him to stay.
God. I asked him to stay.
And he said no.
Of course, he said no. Because four years ago he made it very clear what he thinks of me. That I'm nothing. That I'm pathetic. That even the idea of being with me is laughable.
