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I flick the television on and dig in, putting away four tacos. She’s asleep after my third. Looking angelic.
When I’m done with my food, I wash and put away my plate and the platter. I sit down again, take her ankles, and put them in my lap so her legs are stretched out. She doesn’t stir.
A while later, I’m lifting her up and her eyes pop open. She looks disoriented.
“Fell asleep on the couch, baby. Gonna tuck you in.”
“I can walk,” she says.
“But you don’t have to, do you?” I ascend the stairs with her.
When I put her on the bed, I kiss her on the temple. “Be with you in a minute. Grabbin’ a shower and have to make a couple calls.”
She doesn’t answer, so I flick the lamp off and go shower.
When I join her in bed a while later, she’s now under the covers and seems like she’s out again. I pull her into my arms. She snuggles into me and lets out a sweet little sigh. She’s sound asleep so it’s not a sound she’s aware she’s making. But it’s mine. Like her.
It’s a happy sound even though I know she’s not happy. I know she’s holding my actions against me, still, but I’m also sure that she’s gonna get where she needs to be.
I can’t seem to fall asleep for hours. Because I can’t wait to see if her eyes are gentler in the morning. But I’m also afraid they won’t be. She didn’t fight me tonight. She made me dinner. She wasn’t entirely open, but she was more open than she has been. The most she’s been since the first night I spent with her. The idea that it could be like that again? Like that all the time? I can’t wait to see if this is a turning point. But if it isn’t, I know I’m closer than I was yesterday. Maybe today alone was good for her. Maybe I should give her some space tomorrow, too.
I’m finally able to drift off thinking I’m looking forward to tomorrow night, to seeing if she’s happy to see me, if she’s made food again.
I wake up alone and immediately face an onslaught of my own guilt with a heavy dose of mortification. Rolling over to the middle of the bed, I stare at the ceiling, giving myself a moment with my shame.
I can’t believe I let him jump me when he got home. And I felt a little palpitation when he came in because I was kind of hoping he’d jump me. So stupid. Why? After everything? Why?
I was thinking about him all evening as I busied myself making dinner, wandering around the house, the yard. Running the vacuum after the movers tracked some dirt in. They came a few hours before Derek got in and I had them load all my things into one of the bedrooms on the second floor. Clothes, my desk and bookshelves. The sofa bed from my office. Boxes marked with the contents of each. Boxes of kitchen stuff. I don’t know what’s in any of them; I’m not about to unpack or have a look. Because what would that say about my opinion on this situation? At least I have access to the rest of my toiletries; I made sure the box I noted said Chloe Steele, bathroom didn’t get buried.
Chloe Steele. I’m sure if Adam was home when those movers packed and marked my belongings, seeing that name in the black Sharpie block letters must have stung. Or maybe it didn’t. There was even a woman as part of the crew, for packing my personal things. And that seemed like something my thoughtful, possessive, swoony psycho stalker would do.
I guess he’s now technically my swoony psycho husband. Argh.
As the movers were coming in with the last box, there was a grocery delivery, so I got to cooking and saved food for Derek, not realizing it would get me a reaction even bigger than when I made him a sandwich.
He looked so warmed by the fact that I did something as simple as consider he might be hungry. And somewhere in his travels yesterday, he went out and bought me books. Books I’d have bought for myself. Because he pays attention. And I’m annoyed by how much I liked that he did that.
Yes, he pays attention. He tries to anticipate what might make me happy. He looks at me like I’m his dream girl. He fucks me like he can’t get enough. And like he wants me to enjoy it even more than he wants to enjoy it. But he also wants to enjoy it. And he does. He makes sure we both get off. And then snuggles my feet on the couch while he watches TV and eats the food I made, as if tacos are the most gourmet and delicious thing ever. I woke up with his strong, warm hand on my foot and then drifted off again.
Then I wake up again being carried to bed with him looking at me while he carries me like I’m precious. Something wonky happens in my belly whenever he carries me somewhere. He’s tall. Has those big muscled arms. And when he carries me he looks at me. Really looks at me.
He stood up for me with his mother yesterday. He had a look of pride on his face when I stood up for myself with that media monster lady.
He tried to make a point with my parents the night before last by gushing about what he feels are some of my qualities.
He bought me the company I work for so that it’s mine.
And he’s insane. Obsessed. Dangerous. He’s put me through all sorts of mental turmoil after spying on almost every aspect of my life. And there’s what he’s done with Adam! And he all but admitted to being responsible for Adam’s uncle’s death, which caused Adam’s grandmother’s death! Having people held at gunpoint? Threats of forcing a cop to turn dirty?
Could I get him to go on medication? Would that help? Would that be a way to justify easing into this life in this dream house with the most gorgeous man I’ve ever been with? With the best sex I’ve ever had? With all those promises that make him sound like a dream husband? Would medication make him less dangerous? Would it also make him less… Derek? Because if he’s just another hot guy that’s not obsessed with me, would he be like most every other hot, rich guy out there that’s instead obsessed with themselves? Maybe he’d let me go live my own life if I got him on medication. Maybe he’d realize just how fucked up all of this is.
I pick my phone up and see a text message from him.
Gone to work early. Sorry, baby. Know it’s our honeymoon but I’ll take the rest of the week off. My turn to take care of dinner so don’t cook. I love you.
His turn to cook? A husband who shares the domestic load? A mythical creature indeed. Not unlike the mythical unicorns I was worried about being sacrificed when I lady-scaped for no good reason. Maybe there was a mythical creature meeting and they sent Derek to me so no more of their babies would dissolve.
Speaking of mythical creatures, I have two more sexy novels to read, and it’s been eons since I gave myself a whole day on a couch reading a book. I decide that’s what I’ll do. After coffee. After an Alannah catch-up.
