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Finally, I break down and call Trinity, who asks how my life in isolation is going and then, before I can answer, launches into a tirade about Blake, which ends with, “Blake clearly wasn’t hugged enough as a child.” Trinity’s tone is harsh, and I appreciate the defense, even though it treads closely on an issue I’ve been considering lately.
“Honestly, I don’t think any of us were hugged enough as a child.” That’s one of the problems with having so much damn time on my hands.
Problem? Blessing?
One or the other, I still haven’t figured out which.
Basically, I’ve spent way more time lately thinking about … well, stuff. All the little traumas and emotional wounds that no one makes it out of childhood without incurring. And all those moments in our childhood that created this wedge between Blake and Trinity and I. That wedge that lead us to this moment.
“True,” Trinity agrees. “Dad certainly wasn’t affectionate with any of us. But only one of us turned out to be an absolute total wanker.”
“Yeah, about that–” I begin before her use of the word wanker hits me. Then I practically squee. “Oh my God, you’ve been reading it?”
A beleaguered sigh comes through the phone. “Yes, I’ve been reading that fanfic you recommended.” She sounds absolutely horrified to admit it.
“And it’s amazing, right? So good!” Yes, that’s the other thing all this free time has led to.
I started with rewatching all the Harry Potter movies on HBO, which led to the books. And eventually to Dramione fanfic.
“I swore I was done with that world,” Trinity grumbles.
“I know, I know. You don’t support J. K. Rowling’s opinions. It’s not about that. Particularly not when you delve into the fanfic.”
“Yes. I know. And I agree. There are so many people writing in that universe, it’s not about just Rowling anymore. But I can’t believe you, of all people, got me into reading Dramione fanfic. You were never even a Harry Potter fan. You were always too busy hanging out at the restaurant with dad to even read the books. When you were ten, I asked you what you thought your Patronus would be, and you asked me if a Patronus was one of the five French mother sauces.”
“What can I say? I was an ignorant twat as a child. I’m clearly much more sophisticated now.”
“You don’t get to take that superior tone of voice when you’ve been reading Dramione smut.”
“It’s not smut. It’s amazing. And you’ve clearly also been reading,” I point out as I flop back onto my bed inside dramatically. “And isn’t it the best?”
“Yes. I have to admit, it’s amazing. Loads better than when I went through that horrible Twilight fanfic stage.”
We talk for a few more minutes about fanfic before Trinity brings the conversation back around to the real reason for our call. Even though I didn’t say it out loud, she’s my sister, and sometimes there are just things sisters know.
“How is the job going?”
“It’s going well. Really well.”
“But…” She leaves the question dangling there in the air between us for a minute before I answer.
“But things aren’t exactly as I thought they were.”
There’s a bit of silence that feels fraught with Trinity’s desire to say, I told you so. Instead, she says, “If you’re in danger, no amount of money is worth—”
“It’s not like that.” At least, I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s not like that. Ian doesn’t seem dangerous—moody, an absolute wanker, and not at all what I expected—but certainly not dangerous.
After all, if he was dangerous, wouldn’t I already be… I don’t know? Dead, or something?
I was completely at his mercy. Despite my delusions of self-defense, he incapacitated me almost immediately, and could’ve done much worse than he did. If he was prone to fits of rage, or had any interest in violating me somehow, surely, he would’ve done it when I was beating him with a wooden spoon.
“No, it’s nothing like that. But the other day I actually met my boss, and he wasn’t exactly what I expected.”
“Wait. What? Do you mean you hadn’t met him until now?”
“I hadn’t. The specifics of my contract said that I should stay out of his house as much as possible. So I made food in the cottage, brought it over, and left. I was never in the house over five minutes at a time. The other morning I met him and he’s not what I expected.”
“What did you expect? How is he not what you expected?”
