After he dropped me off last night, I took a shower, crawled into bed, turned off the light, and replayed everything about the evening. He’d been kind and sweet.
A perfect gentleman.
Those same butterflies I felt at Hendrick’s Bar came fluttering back the moment I saw his handsome face at my door with a coffee in his hand.
I pull open a kitchen drawer and place the cutlery in the slot, the silverware rattling softly.
Now, while he’s upstairs, all I can think about is why my mother’s piercing voice hasn’t come out to play games with me. I talked to Chase for most of the night, but there hasn’t been a peep from her. Not a single whisper.
The different mantras I use never silence her voice completely. Even when I say them like a broken record, she still sometimes finds a way to slip through.
I thought last night would be one of those times she’d break in.
I expected it.
I waited for it.
But her claws never came out.
And now, Chase is here. In my house. And still, nothing.
I wish I could be the type of girl who could take this as a win. I wish I could breathe and enjoy the peace and quiet.
It’s been three years since I heard her voice on a regular basis—apart from the Wess incident, that is. I told Roberta I’m doingwell, and I am, but at the same time, I’m not naive enough to believe my mother just decided to take a vacation from taunting me.
I know better.
It’s like she’s waiting.
Lurking in the dark parts of my mind, biding her time for something bigger.
The sounds of footsteps on the stairs pull me out of the memories I wish I didn’t have. Chase’s hair is damp, and there’s a patch on his shirt from where he’s tried to blot the coffee stains, but it doesn’t look awful.
He tousles his wet hair with his right hand, droplets of water flicking out to the side. I can’t help but stare. Only two words come to mind as I do.
Hot damn.
I force myself to look away before he notices me looking. My fingers twist in the hem of my sweater, trying to find a piece to grip and anchor me.
He bends to put on his shoes, and I stare as though it’s the most remarkable thing on the planet. As he pulls on his laces, I wonder whether going anywhere with him is a wise idea.
He’s just a guy.
I can have a conversation.
It’s a Little League game.
I’m not my mother.
He looks up and frowns as if he recognizes and understands everything that’s going through my head.
“You’re wearing the same look you had at the bar. Like a thought is nagging at you in the back of your mind. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“You caught that?” I mumble.
“Hard to miss. I wasn’t watching anybody else butyouthat night.”
My pulse quickens but still no mother.
