When she goes to the freezer to fetch me more meals, I take my chance. Moving over to the key rack and swiping Ellie’s flat keys. I stare at the kitchen door as I work the front door key free, hoping that no one will notice its absence. Ellie comes home often enough that Sandra doesn’t make impromptu visits to her house in the same way as she does mine.
Rummaging continues in the utility room. ‘Do you need any pudding? I have some apple crumbles.’
‘Sure,’ I reply as I fumble with the ring, working the key along the ring until at last it springs clear.
I’m back at the table eating a biscuit when Sandra returns, arms laden with casserole dishes.
‘You should come for Sunday lunch,’ she says as she places the dishes on the table.
‘I’ll try.’ I hate the way her brows furrow, and I relent. ‘I can do this Sunday.’
‘I’ll make yorkshires.’ The soft smile on her face guts me. She deserves better. A real son.
Ellie’s dot is at the pub where she works as I stand at the mouth of the alley.
Soft light from Kat’s window paints an orange strip on the brickwork opposite, the curtain never quite meeting in the centre. I want to urge her to be more cautious with it, but selfishly enjoy watching her through the crack.
It’s just gone eleven, and I’d already spied her consuming the majority of a bottle of wine while studying, wishing I could keep her in view the whole time, but knowing that my chances of being seen rise with each minute I spend up against her glass.
I give it another thirty minutes, watching my breathcloud in the cold night’s air. The world scurries on outside the alleyway, a fox raking through an overturned bin while students weave drunkenly home from the campus bar. I remain maskless for now, itching to drag it over my face as a form of protection. However ridiculous my stupid mask is, I feel like a new man in it. Braver. More virile. Less like the broken boy I’d been. Like it might protect me from Kat looking at me like I’m broken.
Ellie’s key is warm in my hand, the edge a constant fidget toy while I bide my time.
I run through a thousand reasons to try to justify my actions. But there’s no justifying stalking Kat. I just need to be near her.
To touch her.
Smell her.
To lose myself in her sunshine for a little longer.
I don’t care if it’s wrong. Ineedher.
In my flat with its bare walls, it’s easy to think I’ve imagined her. That I’ve invented her the way I used to when I was a kid. Conjuring up the girl in the woods with golden hair who held my hand no matter how filthy it was.
I stop by her window, pulling on my mask and peering through the curtains. Kat’s asleep on the bed, her hair in a messy ponytail against the pillow, and her pyjama shorts riding up. The expanse of thigh on show guts me. Who knew skin would render me so utterlydevastated? I want to bite her, to leave a mark on her as she had left on me all of these years. To claim her asmine.
My pulse races as I push the key into the lock, and even the slight scrape of the bolt turning makes me sweat. Will she be sleeping soundly enough? Or will she wake and catch me in her home?
The flat door gives, and within two steps, I’m in her domain.
Hints of her lie everywhere. The trainers she’s kicked off by the door, and the cardigan she wore earlier thrown on the edge of the sofa. A fallen hair elastic with blonde strands still tangled within. All around, I can smell her. Fruity shampoo and floral perfume. I trace the scent to her bedroom, only the ajar door standing between us.
Soft light creeps around the doorframe, and I step up to it, peering through the gap and watching Kat sleep. She looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Surrounded by mountains of cushions and pillows, clearly a creature of comfort. Her chest rises and falls, one breast making an attempt to slip free of her pyjamas as she lies on her side. If it does, I fear I might actually die. Heart attack via nipple slip.
I push the door open and step through, barely daring to breathe.
She’s on her side with one arm tucked beneath her cheek, fingers loose against the pillow. Her blankethas slid off her and is bunched up against her stomach, giving me a glorious view of her tiny pyjamas. Pretty in pink. Her whole room is a collection of feminine things. Soft and sweet. So unlike the wildling I’d met in the forest who fought dragons with sticks and taught frogs how to love.
Another strike for how different we are. I’ve spent my years asleep in a sleeping bag in a hallway corner or in the back of a car I’ve broken into. Packed in a room full of strange boys whom I want to befriend as much as I fear them. Pulled into bed with grown men who should know better.
I drag my eyes from her perfect thighs to the pile of discarded clothing on the floor. Jeans freshly stepped out of, a scrap of cotton still in them.
My throat bobs as I swallow hard.
Her tongue wets her lips, and I have to hold onto the door frame to steady myself.
Being close to her is as addictive as it is terrifying. I want to scoop her into my arms and beg her to remember me. To love me.
