by T. L. Martin
“Don’t even think about it.” Bobby’s eyes are aimed straight at me, squinted enough to suggest he saw every step of the silent plan playing out in my head.
“What?” I blink, chewing my steak.
“You know what. It’s just dinner.”
I try to relax again and give him a nod that I hope says, Duh, I totally know that.
“For now,” he adds with a smirk.
I kick his foot lightly under the table, and he laughs.
The rest of dinner glides by, and by the time our check comes back for him to sign, I realize I’m feeling a little too at home with my ex. There’s a twinkle in his blue eyes that oddly reminds me of Claire with their open hopefulness. It makes me shift in my seat, my uncertainty from earlier quickly returning.
“Here,” I say, reaching into my clutch and withdrawing enough cash to cover my portion. I set the bills before him.
He glances down at the cash, then back at me. “You’re not paying.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Lou. I have years of fuck-ups to make up for here.” He smiles and adds softly, “Just let me buy you some goddamn dinner.” He’s already sliding the cash across the table and finishing his signature when the server comes to collect. After a moment, I take it and stuff it back into my clutch.
We’re quiet again when he leads me to his truck and opens the door for me. I slide in, buckle up, and keep my eyes on the passenger window as he starts the engine and backs out.
He presses a button by the radio, and this time Eden comes on. I sit back against the seat, relaxing my head on the cushioned headrest, trying to figure out how the hell I feel about tonight. About Bobby. Dinner went better than I expected, and I can’t deny I had a good time. I even caught myself staring at his lips and remembering what it feels like to be kissed. To be held. To sleep in a bed warmed by a man’s body.
And I hate it.
I hate that thoughts like this manage to make me feel even lonelier than I have been. I hate that Bobby is trying so hard, being so good, that I almost feel obligated to reciprocate. I hate that I can’t tell if it’s his touch I want or just a man’s touch. I hate that when I think of a man’s touch, I don’t think of Bobby, but of him.
A man I don’t even know.
A man that technically isn’t even a man at all.
Chapter 13
My hands are on my lap, and Bobby’s fingers briefly intertwine with mine, squeezing gently. His fingers are smooth, not rough like a certain other someone’s. And his touch may be soft, but it’s not careful or tender. His skin is warm, though it’s not the kind of heat that makes my body tingle from contact alone. When I glance up at him, he looks over and smiles. It’s innocent, friendly, yet there’s something deeper in his eyes I know I can’t match. I smile back but wiggle my hand out of his grasp, using my long hair as an excuse as I pull it back from my face, twisting it and wrapping it over my right shoulder.
I clear my throat, realizing we’re entering Ashwick Inn’s guest parking lot. “Thanks for dinner.”
He nods, putting the truck into park and cutting the engine before turning his full attention to me. “I had a good time, Lou.”
It takes me a minute to respond, but I’m sincere when I do. “Me too, Bobby.”
The silence spreads, him staring at me and me itching to squirm in my seat again. I take a deep breath. I don’t want to hurt him, especially not when he’s sobering up and pulling himself together like this. Maybe a part of me doesn’t want to completely lose him either. But I’m being selfish, and it’ll hurt him more in the end if I don’t set things straight. Just when I open my mouth to speak, he unlocks his door, stepping into the darkness and strolling around the truck.
I unbuckle and hop out before he reaches me, not needing another act of chivalry to feel guilty about. I know I shouldn’t feel guilty, or like I owe him, for any of this evening—he was right when he said he has years to make up for. That doesn’t make it any less weird for me, though.
This is a side of Bobby I haven’t seen in a long, long time.
He pulls open the inn’s front door for me, and neither of us speak as he leads me up the three flights of stairs. I stop when I get to my door, not wanting to unlock it yet in case he thinks I’m inviting him in. I can tell he wants to say something from the way he’s looking down at me, but when he still doesn’t speak, I start first.
“Look, Bobby—”
“Don’t say it, Lou.”
“But—”
He shakes his head, taking my hand in his. “We had a good time, right?”
I swallow, giving a small nod.
“Then let’s leave it at that. It doesn’t need to be complicated.”
He says that, but at the same time, he’s leaning in. It’s such a slow, natural movement that I don’t know if he’s even aware he’s doing it. I cut my eyes away, glancing at my door and clearing my throat. “Bobby . . .”
He keeps my right hand in his and brings his free hand up to my face, brushing back some strands of my hair. “I’ve missed you so much, Lou.”
There’s pain behind his voice, making it crack. I nod again and say softly, “I know.”
After a long moment of silence, he drops both his hands and takes a step away. “Can I come back sometime? See you again?”
If I thought seeing him unkempt, zoned out, and reeking of beer was hard, it’s got nothing on this. The mixture of hope, hurt, and longing is written everywhere on his face. He may not be my boyfriend anymore, but I still care about him. His well-being, his sobriety.
Finally, I answer, “Of course you can.”
He lets out a long, deep breath and takes another step back. A small smile starts to spread. “See you later, then.”
I smile back and nod.
“Well, all right.” This time I get a full-blown, signature Bobby grin, goofiness and all, just before he turns and makes his way back toward the stairwell.
Alone in the quiet hall, I take a minute to pull myself together. Confusion, longing, grief, loneliness—with all the conflicted emotions bubbling inside me right now, I’m feeling one small step away from fucked up. Half of me wants to lock myself in my room with a bottle of vodka to lose myself in, while the other half wants to yank Bobby in there with me so I don’t spend another Sunday night alone.
Both halves sound like losers, so instead I open the door and lock myself inside before I find myself at the liquor store or back in Bobby’s truck.
I strip out of the uncomfortable, barely-there dress and change into jammies. After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I numbly walk toward the oversized bed and slip beneath the covers.
The tick-tock of a grandfather clock, the outside wind’s tug and pull rattling the window, the emptiness filling the room.
I don’t even know why I’m crying when the tears start to fall, running down my cheeks and onto the white pillow beneath my head. Just like last Sunday, and the two before that, I can’t turn it off. Maybe allowing myself only one day a week to cry isn’t enough. It flows and flows like endless rain, with nothing but the saltiness on my lips and the quiet quivers of my body to remind me I’m feeling anything at all.
When that soothing warmth appears out of thin air, I stop. Glance around. I can’t see him this time, but I know he’s here.
It’s the strangest thing, but he calms me in a way I don’t think I’ve ever experienced. He shouldn’t have such an effect on me, I know this. It goes against all of my instincts—the ones that tell me I should fear him. Especially after what happened earlier today. Whatever that was.
It doesn’t matter what logic screams, I can’t deny the connection I feel to him. It’s deep in my chest, a soothing caress over the hole that usually aches there. His presence, it’s not invasive, not demanding. There’s no pressure, no expectations, no prompting. My breathing calms, my body stills. In and out, one breath at a time, until my stiff sho
ulders relax into the mattress.
I close my eyes and drift away.
The searing pain is what hits me first. My eyes dart down toward a nasty gash above my chest. A thick piece of glass sticks out of my skin, but I tear my gaze away before I can get too caught up in it.
Damn, it hurts.
There’s a small body in my arms, my bare feet trudging through slimy mud with each step I take across the farm. The body squirms against me until a familiar face angles upward to meet my eyes. I swallow hard, trying to ignore little Tommy’s torn up clothes, the fresh burn marks on his stomach.
“You gotta put me down,” he wheezes, cringing when his T-shirt rubs one of the wounds. “Put me down. I can probably walk better than you right now.”
“Hush up, Tommy. I’m fine.” I’m panting, but relief fills my mind when I catch a glimpse of the garden. “See, we’re almost there now.”
We sneak around the back of the garden, as always, and I pray the shed’s unlocked when I reach for its handle. Thankfully it opens on the first try. I wince as I carefully lower Tommy onto the dusty cot, then turn to him with a questioning look. He nods, and I don’t waste any time before stumbling back outside, picking a small handful of rosemary from the garden and setting it on the neighbor’s window ledge as practiced.
We all know the drill. Now all he and I have to do is wait.
I head back to the shed, weakly collapsing beside my little brother. “See now?” I hear myself whisper, my eyes heavy as I rest my head against the hard wall. “We’ll be good and fixed up in no time. Nothing at all to worry about.”
I’m breathing heavily when I wake, clutching the blanket against me. Are they going to be okay? Is their neighbor someone who can help them? I squeeze my eyes closed, reminding myself to take a deep breath.
Stop it, Lou. It isn’t real.
No one is hurt.
It’s just a dream.
Go back to sleep.
Chapter 14
The first thing I do when I wake up is look for him. I don’t know what it is exactly—it’s not like I’m any braver today than I was before—but I need to speak to him. It’s been a full three days since my hand seemed to vanish into thin air, so maybe having had a little time to let things sink in made a difference. I don’t know. What I do know is that there are so many things in my life I have no control over. Too many things. Whether I’m asleep or awake, it’s like I hardly know my own mind these days. And I’m tired of it. Literally. I’m exhausted.
Ready or not, it’s time to ask questions. And hopefully get some answers.
But I feel no sign of him now. His heat is notably absent, and it makes me pull the covers around me tighter when I sit up in bed. Still, I look around a little, feeling silly for it but not knowing what else to do.
I clear my throat. “Hello?” My voice is quiet, shy, and I get no response. “Um . . . Death?”
Hearing those words come out of my mouth and drift into the empty bedroom makes it pretty damn hard not to stop and roll my eyes at myself. But I resist, sitting up a little straighter instead and trying to add backbone to my voice.
“If you can hear me, I’d like to . . . I don’t know. I’d like to see you. To speak to you.”
Silence.
“I—I have questions.”
Still nothing.
Okay, this is ridiculous. He probably can’t hear me; not that I know anything about him, how any of this works. If another person were to tell me they met Death himself and were having one-on-one conversations with him, I’d take their temp or give them a drug test.
Yet here I am.
After another long moment of silence, I shake my head and peel the covers off. The wooden floor is cold beneath my bare feet, and I pad to the restroom, where I brush my teeth and take a short bath. It’s still early. I have no reason to rush before heading over to Mr. Blackwood’s, but the time seems to be ticking slowly by, leaving me with over an hour to spare once I dress in dark jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. After pulling my hair into a ponytail, I turn on my heel and crash straight into a solid, warm figure.
“Wha—Jesus—” I look up to find those blackish grey eyes piercing into me and stumble back a step. The fact I just said Jesus to Death is not lost on me. His dark hair is just as disheveled as the last time I saw him, and he’s wearing the exact same fitted, black T-shirt molded to the hard shape of him, with dark, worn jeans over sculpted thighs. “You can’t just keep . . . sneaking up like that.”
His jaw tightens, the only indication of a reaction. His eyes are closed off. Hard. Dark brows furrow, almost slight enough to miss the movement completely. He says nothing though, which only makes me more aware of the way he seems to take up my entire bathroom. He’s practically pushing me out with his presence alone.
It’s not the first time I’ve felt the all-consuming way he commands a room, but usually I can’t see him. Somehow, this feels different. More intimate in some ways, letting me see every flicker in his eyes, every tick of his jaw, each curve of muscle. Less intimate in others, relying on words instead of touch.
I yank my eyes away from him and maneuver my way around his body until I’m standing in the large open space of my room. He turns his head over his shoulder, eyes tracing my movements. He exits the bathroom, taking two large strides until he’s standing beside the unlit fireplace.
There’s about ten feet of space between us, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. I get the impression he wouldn’t be able to simmer down his heat and intensity any more than the sun would.
Finally, he speaks; the roughness beneath the cultured tone of his voice makes my spine tingle. “Your questions.”
Straight to the point. I wasn’t prepared for that and don’t really know where to start.
After a beat, I say, “So, you can hear me then.”
“That’s not a question.”
“Okay . . . You can hear me then?” I make sure to emphasize the upward tilt at the end, exaggerating the—now—question.
“Apparently, yes.”
“Apparently?”
“Are these your questions?” The way he asks, it’s not like he’s mocking me, but rather genuinely confused. His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to work out a puzzle.
“You were here a few nights ago,” I mutter. When I realize that’s another statement, I add, “Weren’t you?”
A pause, then a firm nod. “In a way, yes.”
I frown before recalling I wasn’t able to see him that time. Is that what he means by in a way?
I’m about to ask when the hard edges of his body begin to blur, smooth shoulders fading enough that I catch glimpses of the brick wall behind them. It’s not much, not like last time when he disappeared, but I realize he might be about to take off.
The next thing I say comes out of my mouth on its own, in a hurry before I lose my chance. “You saved me.”
His muscles tense, jaw ticking again and eyes somehow hardening even more. Scared he’s going to leave before I can go any further, I force my legs to take a step forward, then another, until I’m close enough to have to lift my chin to see those eyes.
“Why?” I whisper. With the closeness, his warmth reaches me like a silky blanket teasing my skin, making me want to inch even closer. But I don’t.
A moment of silence passes. “I can’t answer that.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?” My eyes drift briefly to his neck when I see him swallow, then flick back up to his face. “Please. Why did you save me?”
Finally, he just shakes his head, almost in defeat. Such a contrast to the stiffness of his body, the intimidating stance of his strong build. “I . . . don’t exactly know.”
The vulnerability of his answer hits me hard, for some reason. This man, so unyielding and centered, with enough strength to steal my soul with a single look. Yet in this moment, he seems so . . . uncertain? Cautious?
He takes one slow step back, away from me. “Next question.” His back’s almost pressed up against th
e wall now, nowhere else to go.
My eyebrows knit together, my eyes tracing the set of his jaw, the way his lips tighten as he watches me.
Wait, am I making him uncomfortable?
Just in case, I follow his lead and take a few steps back myself. His broad shoulders relax ever so slightly, just enough to confirm my suspicion. I keep my observation to myself and decide to take advantage of this time he’s giving me.
I can’t help it when my questions come tumbling out all together, rushed. “How do you do that? Just appear out of nowhere? And what happened to my hand the other day, when I reached out for you? How come sometimes, like now, I can see you, but other times I can . . . feel you? And why are you solid one minute, but then almost, like, fading away the next?”
He’s shaking his head, fist clenching, clearly frustrated at something. At me? It doesn’t reach his eyes, but that doesn’t stop the tightening of my stomach. What he does next though almost makes my jaw drop, and I can’t help but stare in fascination. He licks his lips, gently biting down on the bottom one, then rakes his fingers through those thick, wild strands of hair, like he’s contemplating something.
I don’t realize that watching him has me biting down on my own lip until it starts to hurt. I quickly release it and lift my chin, expression bold. It’s my you-didn’t-see-that pose.
When his dark gaze latches onto mine again, it’s resolute. Some decision has been made.
“What?” I ask, still feeling thrown off and flustered.
“That’s a lot of questions,” he murmurs, a trace of irritation in his voice. He’s still mostly guarded, though, unreadable through his eyes. “As far as the last one, it’s simpler just to show you.”