Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Maybe both.
When I hear him moving around late in the afternoon, I nix any further attempt at conversation by putting in earbuds and pretending he doesn’t exist. That works until I have to sit at the same table again.
Dinner is pappardelle with a meaty tomato sauce, sautéed veggies, and garlic bread. The last guy I dated would have been whining about carbs at this point. Not that he lasted. It only took my sister and my mother moving in to run him off.
Mom would have also complained about the carbs, despite no one forcing her to fill her plate with more pasta than vegetables. And she’d have lamented that if she skips the bread, it will go to waste (though if I’d skipped making a serving for her in anticipation of her not wanting the carbs, she would have complained that I didn’t make enough for everyone or that I’m implying she’s fat and pushing her to diet.) Lauryn would have looked at the pasta box and declared that she’d have chosen a different brand or that we should always make our own pasta (not that she would help)—and then, if I do make the pasta myself, demand that I use free-range eggs (I already do, but she checks the carton each time to make sure) and a non-GMO artisan flour that she heard about online (though she doesn’t buy it herself or offer to pay the difference.)
Reed’s not complaining about carbs, though. He’s not complaining about anything. He genuinely seems to enjoy the meals I’ve made so far…which is a novelty.
I feel his gaze on my face while we eat, but I’m still using my earbud protection. At the table. It’s rude, beyond rude, I can barely even stand myself right now, but there’s a weight in my chest growing heavier and heavier with every passing minute. I’m afraid if he says one word to me, just one—it doesn’t even matter what he says—I’ll burst into tears.
But it’s not because of Reed. Not really. It’s just…I only wanted one thing during this holiday. One simple thing. To spend a few days away from people who criticize and judge and who simply cannot fucking leave me be.
Though Reed is leaving me be. I recognize that. But I also wanted to spend time painting—and I’m too afraid of what he might say if I do. It’s not even that I care about his opinion. I don’t. But I don’t want to open myself up to any criticism he might have. It’s the same reason I’m not playing Christmas carols on the portable speaker like I did the first day. Yesterday, I wouldn’t have anyway, while his head was clearly hurting. Or while he was sleeping. But I won’t now, either. Having been around my mom and sister makes it impossible for me to sing out loud in front of anyone else. I don’t have a great voice, I know it. It’s scratchy and always off-key. But I like singing. It makes me happy. Yet I know from experience that it only takes one snide comment to make me feel like shit, instead.
I’m so tired of always having to protect myself. So I just wanted a few days where I didn’t have to walk around with my armor on. I can’t do that at home. I’d hoped I could here.
But Reed’s here now. And even though he was so nice about me rubbing against him this morning, though he’s been so nice about the food, though he said nice things in his delirium, I feel as if I’m waiting for the knife to come out. And why wouldn’t it? He’s always hated us. And he said plenty of shit before. Do I really think he would stop at tearing down a house when I’m right here to tear down, instead?
I don’t.
So I just want to be alone. I just want to be alone.
Where it’s safe.
Reed silently volunteers to do the dishes by starting on them after finishing his dinner. I let him have at it, change into my pajamas, and head to my armchair to read. I don’t look up from my phone when he eventually joins me in front of the fireplace. His big frame fills the oversized chair, where he sits with his feet extended toward the flames and his eyes closed for almost two hours. Then he heads to bed.
Though I’m exhausted, I don’t follow. Instead I toss another piece of wood onto the fire, return to the armchair, and arrange the quilted throw over as much of me as it will cover. I set my phone aside and close my eyes.
I don’t know what time it is when I wake up shivering, my back aching. The fire’s low. I need to add more wood. But before I uncurl my legs, a massive shadow blots out the light from the fireplace and I’m scooped up against Reed’s broad chest.