AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Her response doesn't give me any answers at all, but leaves me with more questions. How can their relationship be complex? Has she been his mistress through his marriage? What kind of complexity can possibly exist?
“Are you his mistress?”
Instead of answering my question, she closes the passenger door with me inside. When she gets in the driver's side, I turn to her expectantly, waiting for her to answer the question. But all she does is turn toward me and get up on her knees. I’m confused about what she’s doing until she reaches across me and pulls the belt across my lap and chest. Our gazes meet, and for a second I want to kiss her, realizing we're nearly in the reverse position of our first kiss.
She doesn't seem interested, if her tight expression is any indication of her feelings. When the belt clicks into place and the moment passes, I find myself wishing I’d just pulled her in for the kiss anyway. Clearly I'm not too drunk if I'm able to choose not to do something and then feel upset that I let the opportunity pass me by. Right?
She settles into the driver's seat and buckles up before starting the car and carefully pulling out of the parking spot. Moments later, we're on the road toward my house and I push a little more.
“So are you his mistress?”
I watch her knuckles go white as her hands flex on the steering wheel. “I am not his mistress. I would never do something like that to another woman.”
“Why does he act like he owns you?” That feeling must have come from something, somewhere. Most people don't just decide they own another human being for no reason at all. Though given what I know about the man, it's possible he's also that kind of crazy. Clearly there's something not quite right in his head.
“I feel like that's a question you have to ask him.” She glances at me before quickly turning her attention back to the road. “I can't read minds, you know.”
Still, I get that nagging feeling of doubt like she knows more than she's saying. I wish she’d just open up and be honest about whatever was going on between the two of them.
“I meant it when I said I have feelings for you.” I need her to know that I play for keeps, and I'm not just messing around and playing games with her heart. Part of my hope for reminding her is that she feels the same.
Once again, her hands tighten around the steering wheel and the hollow at the base of her throat bottoms out as she swallows hard. “I really don't think we should talk while you're drunk.”
I don't like that she keeps blowing me off. “I think now is a perfect time to talk.” All that internal anger continues to swish around my gut and some escapes with those words. She pulls up to the gate of my driveway and security buzzes her in. The gate swings open and she drives up toward my house.
“I don't like seeing you like this, and I’m worried about you. I’m going to come up and make you food to absorb some of the alcohol in your stomach.” She reaches between our seats and hands me an unopened bottle of water. “If you want to talk, I need you to drink this first.”
I crack open the bottle of water and down the contents in several gulps. I have to admit that I like that she's worried about me. Maybe she does actually have feelings for me too.
She parks in front of my house and comes around to the passenger side door, opening it for me and helping me to my feet.
“I can walk,” I say, but with the first step, I feel so wobbly, I realize I'm more drunk than I thought.
“I have some pre-made pasta in the fridge. I'll just bring you some of that, okay?” She's all business now, and I’m turned on by her as she walks me up to the front door, keys in the code, and pushes inside. With quick steps, she leads me back to my bedroom, undresses me with clinical hands and settles me in the bed.
“I'll be right back with food.” As she says the words, she ducks out of my room, pulling her phone from her pocket as if she's about to make a phone call.
I stare at the ceiling, wondering where my night went off the rails and realize it was probably right around the fifth or sixth bourbon. Usually I can hold my liquor pretty well, but I feel the booze sitting like a weight in my stomach.
What could have been moments or hours later, she reappears with a bowl in hand and a cup in the other. She pushes the food into my hands and I take a quick bite, nearly dropping the fork and stabbing myself in the corner of my mouth.
She perches on the edge of my bed, watching me with troubled eyes. “Would you like me to feed you?”
“I don't think that's necessary.” I manage to make the second attempt without too much trouble as she places a cup on my bedside table.
“Drink this.” As she says the words she reaches into her purse and pulls out another water bottle and a container of pills. She takes out two of the pills and places them on my bedside table next to the water. “And those are for when you wake up, just in case you wake up with a wicked hangover headache or pain.”
I take another bite of the pasta, wishing I could savor the meal. But my tastebuds are dulled by alcohol and the food settles into my stomach, curbing the sourness there and hopefully sopping up whatever booze remains.
“Would you like a cup of coffee? I've heard that helps.” She's studying me intently as I eat, but I see only concern in her eyes, not judgment, not anger, not frustration - just worry.
“Only if you'll join me for a cup.” I say the words with a gentle humor, and she smiles.
“It's not too late in the day to have a cup of coffee. Let me go get that made.” With that, she swiftly exits the room again, leaving me to contemplate my existence.
What is the nature of her relationship with Methew? Why does the man feel like he owns her? What could have possibly happened between them to make him think he has any claim over her at all?
I finish my food and she brings in coffee. I take a sip, well aware she’s added milk and cooled the liquid to a safer temperature.
