The next morning, there is a vase of tulips by the bed when I wake. A storm of feelings rises in me immediately, leaving me so frustrated and confused, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The gesture feels hollow. Like he’s trying too hard, or offering me a Band-Aid when my chest has just been slashed open.
When I start to get dressed, I realize I’m still wearing Owen’s robe. Last night, it was big, cozy comfort, a gentle caress on my skin, tinted with his scent.
Now it feels gross, like I’m chaining myself to my kidnapper.
I feel so fucking stupid!
I manage to get ready without crying, but it isn’t easy. I feel like every inch of progress Owen and I gained over the last few weeks just blew up in my face the second he said “face your past” in a cheery voice.
How do I facehimnow?
When I go hesitantly into the kitchen, Owen isn’t there, but he’s left some muffins on the table, wrapped up in a pretty basket. The note says he stopped at the bakery that morning before going to the infirmary and he hopes I’m feeling better.
While I wait for Lacey, I eat a few muffins, feeling wary of his gesture but too hungry to ignore the treats.
Honestly, what good would it do to not eat the muffins? I’d be punishing myself, not him.
By the time Lacey picks me up, I’m not feeling any better, but I manage to put on a brave face. Work is too busy for me to think much, and I’m grateful for it, even with Angela over my shoulder, constantly checking on me.
It’s like she wants to be mean to me because I’m with Owen—but she doesn’t want him to hear about her nasty behavior, either.
I survive the day, but by the end of it, I’m almost completely exhausted. Lacey notices, but I just tell her I’ve been restless over the big event at the museum, and she doesn’t pry.
I’m surprised to find Owen home already, and I avoid the kitchen when I go to take a shower and get changed. He knocks on my bedroom door when I’m getting dressed and tells me dinner is ready if I want it. He goes away without waiting for an answer.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands clasped against my chest as if I can stop the pain building there. It swells inside me, years of torment that I hadn’t even been fully aware of until that first night with Owen.
I thought I was in the best possible place to heal, but then Owen had to go and trample all over my pain like that. Now I feel like I can’t trust him.
The ache in my chest gets worse, and tears threaten my eyes. Going through this alone seems unthinkable, but it would be better than revealing my pain to someone who can’t respect it.
My stomach growls, cutting through my emotions. I know that food will make me feel better. Plus, going to bed on an empty stomach would be another stupid way of punishing myself more than Owen.
Besides, I can’t avoid him forever. I might as well face him now.
I get up slowly, my body feeling so heavy, it’s as if I have a piano on my shoulders. Every step down the hallway feels even heavier, and by the time I reach the kitchen, I’m genuinely scared.
“Trina,” Owen says. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. I was going to bring some dinner to your room.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
Owen gives me a look, but it’s full of sympathy, devoid of judgment. He doesn’t say anything, just sets the table and serves the lasagna.
I sit down across from him, words bubbling up in my throat as I try to figure out what to say to him. I don’t want to scream at him or cry, but I don’t know any other way to let these feelings out.
You kidnapped me, you fucking jerk. You did the exact same thing to me that my aunt did—and then you joked about it.
I don’t even look up at him while we eat, and Owen doesn’t say anything. Interestingly, the silence doesn’t feel awkward but peaceful, and I find myself calming down a little.
“Are you done?” Owen asks, reaching for my plate.
I nod, wiping my hands as I get up.
“Wait,” Owen says. “Please. I got you some cake.”
I don’t want to be tempted, but he just said the magic word. I sit back down again and can’t help but look up at him eagerly.
