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“Darling, please—”
But she’s already moving, halfway out the door. Her hips sway with purpose, knowing it’s going to torture me. At the doorway, she stops, turning her head just enough to meet my eyes. I can feel the hesitation; I beg the universe for her to step back into this room.
“Next time you want to confess to your sins, try a priest. I’m not in the business of forgiving.” She sounds so honey-sweet, the sugary sharpness stabbing right through my heart.
I sit back in my chair and watch her disappear. Through the window, I can see her accepting her coat from the hostess and the way other diners pay attention when she passes.
“Goodnight, darling,” I call out after her into my wine. “See you soon.”
And I will. Because whatever is going on between us, it isn’t over. Not even close.
14
Darling
It’s nearly 11:00 at night; the house is dim and quiet except for the sound of the TV on a low volume, so I’m not in complete silence. My stomach grumbles, and I realize I haven’t had anything to eat since Le Jardin yesterday. I get up from the couch and walk through the open space into the kitchen. The cabinet door squeaks when I open it to emptiness—not a single thing in there. Well, besides a half-empty jar of peanut butter. Turns out when your best friend dies from the man who is stalking you, you don’t really have time to think about grocery shopping.
I grab the jar and a butter knife from the drawer, then take my spot at the small table that separates the living room and the kitchen. I scrape the knife against the side of the jar, and before I can even reach my mouth, there’s a knock on the back door. There’s no time to register that someone has knocked when it swings open.
My eyes instinctively roll when I see Preston stroll in; I put the knife in my mouth, dragging it between my lips.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Preston says, smiling as he shuts the door behind him.
Seeing him this way is so strange. My entire being is frazzled with ambivalence; he’s the friendly patron at the library, he’s the sweet guy who supported me when my best friend died… he’s also the guy who killed her.
“Go away,” I mutter, mouth sticky with peanut butter.
“I just wanted to let you know that everything is cleared away… finally.”
I shrug.
I wish I cared that he cleaned up the mess of his dead sister—I wish I felt more about it in general. The only thing bothering me is that he’s been in and out of the house for the past few days, taking his time and lingering. I don’t look up at him, just keep my focus on the jar in front of me.
“If you’re hungry, I can get you—”
“I don’t want anything from you. I’d rather starve to death at this point.”
He smiles at me again, walking further into the house, leaning against the counter, both hands resting behind him. “I figured you’d say that.”
“Then why bother asking?” I ask, stabbing the knife into the spread with more force than necessary.
“Because I’m going to take care of you. Just thought I’d be nice and give you the opportunity to say yes.”
My laugh is loud and sharp; a single-syllable ‘ha’.
“Boy, do you have a fucked-up definition of taking care of something. If you ask me, that’s not what you’ve been doing at all. If anything, you’ve actually made things worse for me—by a lot.”
He doesn’t argue, and that makes me angrier than if he had tried to defend himself. I scoop more peanut butter and pretend that he’s not standing five feet behind me. The silence settles in for a long stretch, but I can feel his eyes on the back of me.
Finally, he sighs, “I’m sorry.”
The words are so quiet I almost miss them, but when they register, I laugh again.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not—” he assures me as I cut him off.
“No, shut up! You don’t get to apologize. ‘Sorry’ won’t fix any of this shit. You’ve put me in a situation that will follow me for the rest of my life.”
