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She ran.
I let out a heavy sigh, peeling away my wet clothes, the chill from the cold water clinging to my skin. Turning the dial on the shower all the way to hot in an attempt to warm up, I step further under the stream of lukewarm water. It barely heats, and offers no comfort, but I’ll take what I can get. I intend to give her the room and time she silently requested, the risk of hypothermia be damned.
Candy’s been hiding since we brought her home. I did wonder if she’s sleeping the trauma off, but deep down, I’m not convinced. The unanswered knocks on her door, the untouched food we’ve left out – it’s all part of her silent protest. She won’t allow us to comfort her.
Doesn’t she realise we need comfort too? The reassurance that she’s back with us, safe, and won’t be leaving again. The silence from her room is deafening, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is gnawing at her, something she’s not ready to share.
This is why I never do emotions. They make you vulnerable, weak. I hate not knowing where I stand with Candy, hate giving her that kind of power over me. But here I am, standing in alukewarm shower, grappling with the emotions that I’ve tried so hard to suppress. When I thought we were going to lose her and Dash…it nearly undid me.
I’m not sure I can open myself up to that level of fear and hurt again. What if she doesn’t stay with us? What if her ordeal makes her leave? Admitting how I feel about her wouldn’t convince her to stay any more than denying the truth would stop me from hurting if she goes.
I finish washing, shutting off the water, and step out of the shower. Grabbing a towel, I roughly dry myself off, the abrasive friction from my angry, frustrated movements against my skin, a physical distraction from the emotional turmoil within. I wait until Candy’s bedroom door opens and closes again before leaving the bathroom. The curtains are still open, and her bed is made – that’s a good sign. Showering was a massive step, and I’m incredibly proud of her for leaving the safety of her room and heading downstairs.
I quickly race to my own room to get dressed, not wanting to miss her. We all have questions, all need answers. Candy, especially. I want to be there for her when she asks them. Because she isn’t going to like our replies, and I think she’ll need more support than ever.
Dressed in clean clothes, I make my way downstairs, the tension in the air palpable. The smell of coffee lingers in the house, a familiar and comforting scent, mixed with Mama Russo’s lasagne. My steps echo in the quiet, my mind already anticipating the challenging conversation ahead.
My questions can wait – for now. The weight of the unsaid hangs in the air, and I’m acutely aware that Candy is grappling with more than just her physical wounds. She’s back, but her scars run deep.
CANDY
To his credit, Frost stays in my cold shower until I’m dried and dressed, opting to wear the leggings and cashmere from Elle rather than the clothes I purchased with Wint. I close the bedroom door behind me and slowly head downstairs. I follow my nose to the kitchen, managing to muster a small smile when I step through the door and three heads swivel to stare at me.
“Hi. Don mentioned lasagne?” I ask, hopeful that they’ll take the hint that I don’t want to talk about certain things.
“Take a seat,” Wint says, sliding out of the booth smoothly and indicating that I should take his place while he dishes up the food.
“Thanks,” I say, glad to be off my feet. Just showering, dressing and coming downstairs has taken it out of me.
“Let me get you a drink,” Don says, jumping to his feet and racing to get a glass.
“Just water please,” I say. I never much cared for water, but after being denied it for so long – or what seemed so long to me – I can’t think of anything more refreshing and thirst quenching now.
“Here.” He slides a glass to me, the ice with it chinking as condensation beading on the sides.
“Thank you. What day is it please?”
“Friday. The 29th. Where’s Frost?” North says, frowning.
For some reason I can’t directly meet his gaze. His scrutiny is too intense.
If it’s Friday, and I was taken in the early hours of Tuesday morning and was gone for two days, I must have had such a massive sleep upon returning to the house, but I’m exhausted, like I’ve not slept at all.
“Where’s Frost?” North asks again, drawing me back to the present. I shake my head.
“In the shower. Where’s Dash?” I ask as Wint sets a large plate of lasagne down in front of me. There’s a beat of silence.
“That’s too much,” North barks at Wint, making me jump.
“She’s starving,” Wint complains.
“Yes. And she hasn’t eaten since Christmas Day. She needs to take it easy or she’ll be sick.”
I grimace. Now that I can smell and see the food set before me, I’m suddenly ravenous. North pulls my plate away from me and cuts the portion in half. I want to pout at the unfairness of it, but don’t. He meticulously cuts my food into small bite sized pieces before sliding it back to me.
“What, not going to feed it to me?” I quip weakly. I’m so hyper aware of how charged the atmosphere in the room is, that I’m just trying to bring back some semblance of normality.
North’s eyes narrow and he scoots around the table to sit beside me, stealing my plate once more and loading up my spoon. He holds it up before my lips with an expectant rise of his brow.
