"Because I know you."
The simple statement hit harder than it should have. He did know her. Knew her habits, her avoidance patterns, her tendency to skip meals when she was upset.
Knew her, in a way no one else ever had.
"I'll eat later."
"Edie."
"I said I'll eat later."
Silence. She could imagine his expression without seeing it—frustrated, worried, that familiar furrow between his brows that meant he was fighting the urge to fix something.
"Fine."
She heard him set something down—a plate, probably, or a container. Food she hadn't asked for, provided anyway.
Then footsteps retreating. The door closing.
Gone.
This is what you wanted, she reminded herself. Space. Distance. The freedom to make your own choices.
She climbed down from the scaffolding to find a container of soup and a fresh bread roll. Still warm. Probably from the café down the street, the one that made the tomato basil she'd mentioned loving once, weeks ago, in passing.
He'd remembered.
Of course he'd remembered.
Tarmek remembered everything.
Edie stared at the food, throat tight, and wondered how much longer she could keep running from someone who refused to stop caring.
The mural's almost done,she thought.A few more days. Then I can go.
But go where?
The question had no answer.
She ate the soup standing up, tasting nothing, and tried to convince herself that this was freedom.
It felt a lot like a prison.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The silence was the worst part.
Tarmek stood in his kitchen at 5:47 a.m., exactly thirteen minutes before his alarm would have gone off, staring at the coffee maker like it had personally betrayed him. Two mugs sat in the cabinet—the plain black one he'd used for years and the ridiculous sloth one he'd bought her three weeks into their... whatever this was… Had been.
He reached for his mug. His hand hesitated over the sloth.
Don't.
He grabbed the black one and slammed the cabinet door harder than necessary.
The coffee maker gurgled through its cycle, filling the condo with the only sound besides the refrigerator's hum. No music drifting from the bathroom. No off-key singing. No cheerful chatter about dreams she'd had or ideas for the mural or questions about his day that somehow made him want to answer.
Just silence. Clean, orderly, suffocating silence.
