by Scott, Kylie
Chapter Six
As a peace offering, I make Ed a thermos of hot coffee and leave it sitting on the kitchen counter. Since I don’t know how he takes his coffee, I don’t put in any milk or sugar. No idea what time he gets out of bed, either. Perhaps he’s in there, listening to my footsteps, waiting for me to leave. Though he might also be fast asleep, completely unconcerned with me and not planning on waking up for hours yet. Gordon, meanwhile, is curled up on his designated dog bed over by the couch being absolutely no help. He’s already been outside for a short walk so he could pee on the local flora and is now ready for a nap. With around twenty hours of beauty sleep a day, no wonder he looks so good.
I should probably leave Ed a note explaining not only the lack of dairy and any sweetening additions to the brew, but also what time I made it. It would be a nice touch.
Problem is, I don’t seem to own a pen. The guy who robbed me really took everything that made me who I was. Memory. Phone. Handbag.
My cool new library-card-style cotton tote (got it from work) doesn’t contain much. Money, cell, lip balm, and a book. The book is a fantasy this time, Uprooted by Naomi Novik.
But yeah . . . about that pen.
None in the kitchen drawers or lurking around the table and mostly tidy countertop. His art supplies include a case of pencils, though they look both special and expensive. I doubt he wants me using them to write silly notes.
The only place left I can think of is the desk in the spare room. Nothing on the top apart from a couple of folders filled with bills and receipts. A slither of guilt warns me against going through his shit, but my intentions are pure. I’m not reading up on his financials or anything. His privacy is mostly being maintained. I just want to leave him a note, and it is my temporary room, and he did tell me to make myself at home.
Time’s a-wasting, and I’m due at work. My kingdom for a pen.
In the top drawer are scissors, tape, some Post-its, an eraser, and—gasp, oh yes, at long last—a couple of pens. One looks crusty and about ten years dead. I test the second against the palm of my hand and bingo. We’re good to go.
Only, wait . . . an old, slightly worn, small blue velvet box sits near the back of the drawer. Half hidden from sight.
Without thought, I lift it out, carefully cracking the lid.
“Holy shit,” I mutter.
Because there, sitting on a bed of white satin, is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Jewelry-wise, at least. It’s white gold with a round diamond and decorative metal lacework. Antique, obviously. An engagement ring, equally as obvious. It’s sweet and pretty and all of the things I’m not.
“Give me that.” Ed snatches the jewelry box out of my hand, his jaw set. He’s only wearing loose sleep pants—and holy shit, his chest. So much skin and ink. Half-naked Ed is wildly distracting. Lots of unhappy on his face, however. “The fuck were you doing going through my things?”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t spying or anything; I was just looking for a pen,” I say, holding up my graffitied hand. “See?”
“What the hell . . . to draw on yourself?”
“To leave you a note to go with the coffee I made you.”
He just shakes his head, the box gripped tight in his fist. “Just stay out of my things.”
“O-of course. Sorry. Again.”
The man about-faces, heading straight toward the bathroom. I wisely do not say another word as he slams the door shut.
After this, I go to work. Kind of, sort of wondering if the locks will be changed by the time I return. It might be for the best.
* * *
“If sorting it out in bed isn’t an option, then filling his stomach is always your next best bet.”
I wince. “I don’t know. It was making him coffee that got me into this mess.”
“No, it was sticking your nose where it had no business being that got you into this mess,” says Iris, sounding far surer and wiser than I.
“But—”
“You were just looking for a pen. Yes.” She clucks her tongue. “And when you found the pen, did you stop looking? No, you did not. Now go over to the recipe section and get busy.”
“I feel judged.”
“I don’t know,” says Frances, sipping coffee on the couch. “Seems like she kind of has a point there.”
I just flip her the bird.
“Real mature, Clem.”
“What if I buy him something?” I ask.
“Why don’t you try making something with your own two hands?” asks my sister. Two against one isn’t fair. “Invest some time and effort into your apology.”
With a heavy sigh, I sit on the floor in front of the cookbooks. “Who do you think the ring was for, anyway? I mean, I doubt it was for me, right?”
After a minute or so of silence, I finally look up to find them both gazing at me with wonder. Maybe a little horror too.
Iris just blinks. “Honey, you cannot possibly be that stupid. Tell me you’re not.”
“Maybe they hit her harder than we realized,” says Frances.
Give me strength. These two are theoretically meant to be on my side, but some days it really doesn’t feel like it. Though I guess their version of the truth is better than having people try to feed me bullshit. Still . . . “I know we probably haven’t been broken up long enough for him to be proposing to the brunette I saw him with at the restaurant. But the ring could have been meant for someone he dated before me.”
Frances shakes her head. “No. He actually asked me if I thought you’d like an antique ring or if you’d prefer a new one. Wanted to be sure you got what you wanted.”
“When did this happen?”
“Must have been about three months ago. Guess he was just waiting for the right moment to pop the question,” she says. “And then everything kind of imploded.”
“He wanted to marry me?” My shoulders slump. This was one piece of my history I could have done without ever learning. “Marriage . . . holy shit. That’s big. Huge. I didn’t realize we were anywhere near that stage. I mean, I knew we were serious and everything, but . . . I feel like the biggest asshole alive.”
“Now you’re just being dramatic,” chides Iris.
“You shouldn’t have agreed with his idea about me moving in, Frances.”
“Please.” My sister groans. “You know you were desperate to spend more time with the man. I pretty much did you a favor.”
I admit to nothing. The thought of Ed and me planning a long-term future together, possibly involving white picket fences and two-point-five children, has blown my mind. Till death do us part and all that. There are no words. No wonder I broke his heart, thinking he’d cheated on me. Everything considered, the man couldn’t have been more serious about our relationship if he’d tried.
“But your safety had to come first anyway. On the off chance you’re being targeted, changing your location and making sure you’re not alone more of the time is best.”
I disagree, but keep my mouth shut. Instead, I pull out a book.
Ed’s opinion matters to me. He matters to me. So it’s time to take charge. Even if that means groveling.
* * *
It’s a bit after six o’clock when Ed walks in the door, keys jangling in his hand. Gordon walks over to greet him for a pat, his tail wagging double time. The table is set, the scent of roast chicken and vegetables in the air. Along with a fainter hint of lemon cleanser. I’ve been busy.
This would be easier if my heart didn’t get overexcited at the sight of him. If I didn’t want his approval and affection. But you can’t demand shit from people. You can only give of yourself and hope for it to be reciprocated.
Ed stops cold, head cocked. “What’s going on?”
“I, uh . . . we need to talk. Can we talk?”
“We’re already talking.” His gorgeous face is like stone. All strong angles and no nonsense. “What’s up, Clem? You made dinner?”
“Yeah, I got off work early.”
&nbs
p; “Obviously.” His gaze moves around the room. “See you did some tidying up too.”
I just nod. He can witness the glory of his now shining toilet and bathroom tiles later. Every possible inch of his pad has been scrubbed, wiped, swept, mopped, or dusted. And no drawers or cupboards were looked into. I’ve learned my lesson. The goal here is to undo what harm I’ve done, unintentional and otherwise. If I haven’t quite accomplished that, at least I tried.
“And you packed your bags.”
I stare down at the suitcase at my feet. “This wasn’t a good idea, me being here. It was generous of you to open your home to me, but this place should be your sanctuary and that doesn’t work with me here.”
He says nothing.
“My ride will be along soon.” I attempt a smile. It’s doesn’t really happen. “I’m going to go stay at this old B&B I found in the West End. Reasonably close to work, good security, there’s always someone at the front desk, and they gave me a great deal since I booked in for a couple of weeks. Since my payout from the bank came in, I can afford it for a while.”
His gaze narrows. “You’ve already organized all this?”
“Yes.”
His fingers slowly curl in on themselves, gripping the keys tight. Gordon whines softly, picking up on the weird vibe in the room. Poor puppy.
“I’ve never lived on my own. Not so that I remember, anyway. I’m kind of looking forward to it. Dinner’s in the oven when you’re ready.”
He looks toward the kitchen and frowns. “How much cleaning did you do, exactly?”
“Quite a lot. Iris let me off work early.” I just shrug. “This is my way of apologizing and saying thank you.”
“I have a bad feeling I’m being an overly sensitive asshole.”
I laugh. “I have a bad feeling I’ve been an asshole in general, so . . .”
At this, he laughs too, and maybe things aren’t so bad. I made the right decision for both of us, I think. No, I know it. How the hell am I ever going to figure out who I am if I’m always being protected and monitored? There hasn’t been another seizure. No crazy person followed me home. Not that Ed’s place is home. But I’ll be fine.
“Let me help you with the bags,” he says.
“Thanks.”
He takes the suitcase and box of books, leaving me with nothing to do except open the door. Gordon does not want to stay inside. The dog yips at me once in protest. Earlier, we had hugs and many pats. I even took some photos of him with my cell.
“You told Frances about this?” asks Ed.
“Not yet.”
He raises his eyebrows in response.
“Clementine,” a voice crawls down the dimly lit common hallway, coming from the front door. If I’d been on my own, it would have freaked me right out. A dude grins at me, gaze creeping over me in a way I do not like. “You’re back? Or you’re leaving again already? Damn. That was quick.”
“Tim,” Ed says, muscling past the man.
“Good to see you.” Tim holds out his arms, coming toward me. And he’s a nice-enough looking guy, but he’s also a complete stranger.
Given how I feel about being touched in general, no fucking way am I letting him get close. So instead, I hold my hand out in the universal sign for stop and his arms flop back to his sides. The look on his face changes to surprise with a hint of resentment. But I don’t want to tell my story to this random person. Something about him just feels off. Probably the creeper-gaze thing. Like talking to my tits is okay.
“Leave her alone, man,” says Ed.
“What?” Tim sort of half-laughs. Like he knows he’s being called out on something yet isn’t willing to admit to it. “Thought we were friends.”
“We’re in a rush,” Ed continues. “Come on, Clem.”
He shrugs. “Fine. Just being neighborly.”
Sidestepping the man, I follow Ed out. And the look he gives Tim back over his shoulder isn’t happy.
Soon we’re standing out on the curb, the night closing in. The air is crisp, a little cooler than it was a few weeks ago. Already I feel lighter, better. Not only about getting out of sight of Tim the creeper, but about knowing that giving Ed his space is the right thing to do.
“Who was that guy?” I ask.
“Rents one of the other condos on our floor. Always was a bit overly friendly toward you. Ignore him. Are you sure about this?”
“Yeah.”
“You know you’re breaking Gordon’s heart.” Ed hands my suitcase and then the box of books over to the driver to be put into the trunk.
“I’ll miss him.”
“You can still come visit.”
“Maybe in a few months. Once things are more settled and I know what I’m doing.”
“Okay. Be careful and don’t lose my number.”
“I won’t,” I say, weirdly gratified.
He opens the back door of the vehicle for me without comment. Gallant to the bitter end. The world doesn’t deserve Ed Larsen. Or maybe it’s just me who doesn’t, because my mouth betrays me one last time. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you cheated on me. I don’t know how I reached that conclusion back then, how it happened exactly. But—”
“Thank you,” he says, cutting me off. His eyes seem darker, more serious than ever. “I mean it, Clem. That was good to hear.”
I nod, pleased that I got something right at last.
He closes the door, taking a step back. Ed and I don’t say goodbye. But then, we’ve done this dance before, after his friend Tessa ripped into me the first time I visited. It felt final that time too, if I recall correctly. Though, this go-around, I know for certain that an era of my new life is over, the one where he was lingering on the fringes. It couldn’t have ever worked. An ex that you dumped on suspicion of cheating. Total amnesia wiping out all memory of a person. Either of those things is capable of destroying a relationship. Add them together, and you get a perfect storm of don’t-even-go-there.
From now on, if I want friends, I’m going to have to make them. If I want a man in my life, then I’m going to have to date. Eventually. There’s no rush.
Before the car can pull away from the curb, Ed shouts out, “Wait!”
I turn toward him, confused.
He opens my door, mouth set and forehead furrowed. “Stay.”
“What?”
“I’m asking you to stay.”
I just blink. “Why?”
In the front seat, the driver turns around, giving us both tired looks.
“We just need a minute,” says Ed, his jawline tense. “Because you’re different now. I mean, you’re still a pain in the ass, don’t get me wrong. But you’re a different kind of pain in the ass . . . one I think, given everything, I can deal with a bit better.”
“I don’t know . . .”
He swallows hard, gaze conflicted. “Look, what it comes down to is, if anything happened to you, I’d never forgive myself, okay? So I want you to stay.”
“Make your mind up, people,” growls the driver, shaking his head.
“I’m going to screw up again, Ed. It’s a given.”
He nods. “I know.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“You’re a fucking mess, and honestly I don’t know that I’m much better. But you going off on your own isn’t the answer,” he says, holding his hand out to me. “C’mon.”
I still hesitate.
“Please, Clem.”
Me and my bags are back on the sidewalk in no time with the driver happily disappearing into the night care of a twenty-dollar tip. I give Ed a worried look and he gives me one in return.
“Thank you,” I say. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
He just nods. “Yeah. Me too.”
Chapter Seven
Life with Ed goes like this . . . I stumble out into the hallway the next morning to find him brushing his teeth. Only wearing a pair of soft navy sleep pants. Oral hygiene has never been so erotic. It’s a lot to deal with
first thing. My hormones don’t quite know how to take it. And I don’t mean to stare at his nipples, pecs, and all of the glory that is his chest region, but it happens. Oh boy does it happen.
“Um, hey,” I say. “Hi.”
Gordy wanders out of the room right after me. At the sight of Ed, his tail happily yet sleepily wags back and forth.
“Are you letting him crash on the futon with you?” Ed asks amid much white froth. “Clem?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
To avoid incriminating myself, I stay silent. It’s possible that he’s right. Eventually, I say, “I’m going to take this very good dog outside so he can do his business.”
The half-naked man shakes his head at me before walking back into the bathroom. I go fetch Gordy’s leash and a doggy poop bag to get the job done. We didn’t talk much after my aborted attempt to leave last night. Both of us were on edge. Wary and cautious and other emotions like that. Instead, we ate dinner and watched Die Hard while sitting at opposite ends of the sofa. Awesome movie. Previous me had good taste in films. And men.
“You’re off early,” I say once I’m back inside and Gordy is wolfing down dog biscuits.
Ed is sadly now fully dressed in gray jeans, a white tee, and sneakers. “I’m walking you to work. If you hurry, we can go by the waterfront. It’s a little out of the way, but you used to love it down there.”
“That sounds great, but you don’t have to.”
“I’ll take you to work and pick you up again. The book shop opens at ten and closes at six thirty, right?”
“Right, but—”
“It’s fine, Clem.” He shoves at me one of the two cups of coffee he’d been making. “Here, drink this, then go get ready.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I turn toward the hallway, then stop. “Is this what we used to be like in the morning? You making coffee and us sorting out our day?”
“Yeah, pretty much.” He doesn’t look up from the counter. “Sometimes I work late. So walking you to work at the bank was a way of fitting in more time together during the week.”
