She’d skimped on food and heat to repair those busted pipes, and now there was a crazed butterfly on her ceiling.
She smiled.
Still smiling, she closed her eyes so she could concentrate better as she took stock of herself.
Wow. She and Nick had made love until past midnight. She’d gone from zero to hero—from no sex to more sex than any woman could possibly handle.
She stretched and felt aches and pains, particularly between her thighs and the muscles of her core. But elsewhere, too. Her mouth felt slightly swollen from his kisses, her breasts still seemed to feel his mouth. The insides of her thighs were stretched from being held open for so long and slightly abraded from his hairy thighs moving between hers.
She felt imprinted with Nick. She could smell him on her, feel him on her. If her body had been a crime scene, they’d find his DNA all over her. Luckily, her body wasn’t the scene of a crime but of unimaginable pleasure.
Last night had been a sort of reboot. From an existence of gritted teeth and iron duty, she’d shifted over into a life of hedonism, of pure pleasure. Food had tasted wonderful instead of like glue, the wine had been like some libation of the gods instead of something sour and acidy she couldn’t drink.
She’d slept. Really slept. Like normal people did, going deep under, then rising refreshed to a normal day.
Oh God. Normal.
Nick had flipped a switch and her life became normal. Not something to be endured but something to be savored. There were things to look forward to. Breakfast for one. She couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t woken up with her stomach in a knot.
Now her stomach was this open and friendly organ, making smiling me too noises. Rolling its eyes toward the kitchen downstairs because, really . . . she hadn’t eaten since last night and it was time to eat.
She opened her arms and legs like a child making a snow angel. Nick wasn’t there and since she didn’t encounter any warmth, he’d been up for some time. If he was trying to cook breakfast, good luck. She had enough coffee for this morning, a little milk if it hadn’t spoiled, and an apple.
Well, they could go into town and have breakfast at Jenny’s. And she could thank Jenny for last night’s feast. Kill two birds with one stone.
Except for caring for her father, all the old problems remained, the ones that had seemed as insurmountable as the Himalayas. There was a mortgage on the house it would take her twenty years to pay off. Joshua Bent, the owner of Bent Mortuary Services, had told her he’d hold off on sending her the bill for a month and that he’d give her a ten percent discount and stagger the payments over a year, but with all that, an eight-thousand-dollar bill was on its way to her.
But Nick was back, and she felt hopeful for the first time in a long time.
She was drowning in debt but . . . it was only money. She was young and she could work. She had her health, she was smart and good with computers. She’d manage.
And Nick was back.
She could face anything right now. Even a bare kitchen. Because Nick was back.
She threw back the covers and shot into the shower, remembering how the last time they’d made love had been in the steamy confines of the shower cabin. Hot, heated sex under hot water. Mmmm. Oh man, she was going to forge a good and sexy memory with Nick in every room in the house, to replace the sad ones.
It was cold in the house, unfortunately. She felt it academically, because she was molten hot herself though it was freezing. She didn’t even choose a heavy sweater because, well, . . . Nick downstairs would certainly see to keeping her warm today.
She hugged herself briefly, glad he wasn’t seeing this excess of childish enthusiasm because she was totally incapable of suppressing it.
She nearly flew down the stairs, expecting to find him rooting around uselessly in the kitchen, ready to suggest going out for breakfast and food shopping and a walk around town, and maybe even a movie in the afternoon.
She hadn’t been to the movies in . . . forever.
The movies, walks in the park, fabulous sex. All those things were in her future. Yes, they were.
She wasn’t so relentlessly alone anymore, she was part of a couple. One by one her girlfriends had fallen away. It seemed like getting a boyfriend in high school entailed ditching your friends.
And then of course all her high school friends went off to college and were lost forever.
Well, every single bit of it—including college, eventually—was now open to her. She wasn’t alone any longer, and the world was full of people to befriend and movies to see and things to do and places to go.
She was poor but she was young and strong and above all, she wasn’t alone anymore. Nick was with her.
She hugged herself again and went into the kitchen to say good morning to Nick.
Only . . . Nick wasn’t there.
He wasn’t in the kitchen and he wasn’t in the living room. He wasn’t anywhere in the house. That huge anticipatory feeling, like a balloon in her heart, deflated. She had so many things to tell him, but above all she wanted to just see him, touch him. And, well—since they’d started—she wanted to have sex with him again. Soon and as often as possible.
She peeked out the living room window, looking left and right. Nick’s SUV was gone. Had he parked it in the garage? But it wasn’t in the garage either.
Oh. So he’d gone into town without her to do the shopping. Which was nice but . . . she’d rather have gone with him. It was nice of him to let her sleep in, but she’d have infinitely preferred driving into town with Nick and doing some shopping, even if she had to pretend she wasn’t using up the last of the reserves in the bank.
She paced the ground floor— kitchen, living room, dining room, study, den, spare bedroom—over and over again, restlessly waiting for Nick. It was a stupid thing to do of course but there was no stopping her. She had all this energy to burn off, this sense of anticipation, as if life wasn’t going to begin until it began in his presence. Everything else was fake time, time to be counted off, minute by painful minute until Nick returned.
Time went back to being so painfully slow, as it had in the endless days of her father’s illness. The grandfather clock struck every hour, but it felt as if days went by between the hours. Time did that stretchy thing again as she paced the rooms, unable in any way to read or watch TV or listen to the radio or troll the net for entertainment.
Why hadn’t she taken Nick’s cell phone number? It hadn’t even occurred to her. Oh God, what she’d give to punch in a number and hear his voice again, so deep she sometimes felt it in her diaphragm. He’d be in the supermarket or even on his way back here and they could talk of inconsequential things, but she’d have heard his voice and he’d give her some estimate of when he would be back so she could stop pacing and checking her watch and pacing some more.
Time crawled on, one painful second at a time. There was absolutely nothing for her to do. Life with her father had been filled with duty, minute to minute. But now all she had to do was wait for Nick and it was excruciating.
She paced and checked her watch and waited, slowly becoming worried. Had he had an accident? The roads were icy and treacherous still. Was he in the hospital right now, bleeding and unconscious? Should she call the police?
But Nick’s driving was almost preternaturally good. Calling the police was over the top, potentially hugely embarrassing if he came in to find her talking to the police.
Because that would be crazy, right?
Over the years of isolation with only a demented shell of a man for company, she’d lost sight of what was normal and what wasn’t. Lost her touchstones of normality. But even to her, calling the police when someone was a little late in coming home from shopping seemed nutso. Over the top anxious, even possessive. Not the kind of person any man could possibly want.
No, Nick would come back when he’d finished . . . whatever it was he was doing.
At noon, the doorbell rang and she ran to the front door, smo
othing her hair, wiping her palms on her jeans.
Normal, Elle, normal, she chanted to herself under her breath. No throwing herself on him in relief. No asking where he’d been. Just smile and say hello.
But when she flung the door open, it was only a pimpled teen in some kind of uniform. She blinked, stepped back.
He was consulting a clipboard, looking at her, leaning back to look at the pewter street numbers on the lintel. “Ms. Elle Thomason? Of 1124 Linden Drive?” Behind him was a delivery truck, with some supermarket logo on the side.
“Yes?” He had the right address, he just had the wrong house.
But apparently he did have the right house, because the kid signaled someone behind him. “Okay—bring them in!”
Bring them in?
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand . . .” And then, of course, she did. Two men ferrying boxes—and boxes and boxes—of groceries carted in on a hand truck. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of food.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” The kid’s voice was sharp with emphasis. He’d been talking to her and she hadn’t heard him. “We’re going to need to know where the kitchen is.”
Numb, Elle stepped back inside, lifted her arm, unable to speak. The men passed her without a word, neatly stacked the boxes and went back out for another load.
In the kitchen, Elle opened a box, peered inside. All dry goods. Staples. Pasta and rice and flour and sugar. All kinds of canned goods. Enough to feed a battalion. Other boxes with staples. The next delivery was fresh fruit and vegetables, more than any person could possibly eat in a month. A huge package of every kind of fresh meat, most of which would have to go into the freezer.
The delivery guys had her sign something and left without saying another word. She stood unmoving in the kitchen, up to her knees in food, sick to her stomach, feeling the world spinning around her, feeling the cold creep back into her bones.
Her legs felt weak, no longer capable of holding her up. She reached blindly for a chair when the phone rang.
“Ms. Thomason?” A male voice. She recognized it but couldn’t put a name to it.
“Yes? Who is speaking.”
“This is Mr. Bent, Ms. Thomason.” Silence. “Of Bent Mortuary Services? Your father’s funeral yesterday?”
His voice buzzed uselessly in her ear because the truth had hit her like a hammer blow.
Oh God. That chair was necessary. She sat down, barely able to breathe. Nick . . . was gone. It struck her like a blow to the heart, squeezing all the air out of her chest. That was the only explanation for the empty house, the supplies arriving from Morristown, two hundred miles to the south.
Nick was on the road and stopped at the first opportunity to top up on gas and top her up with food. A kind gesture for the forlorn waif.
And now Mr. Bent was calling to say he’d changed his mind and wanted his money now instead of over the course of a year.
Money she didn’t have.
It was hard to even think about that through the pain of Nick’s departure. Money. How could she think about money with Nick gone? She could barely focus.
Mr. Bent’s tinny voice was faint, sounding as if he were calling from the dark side of the moon. No—wait. She was on the dark side of the moon, on some cold airless rock spinning in space.
His voice buzzed in her ear again. She couldn’t understand the words, but she had to say something.
“Yes, um, Mr. Bent. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said. What can I do for you?”
Oh God, she was so intent on not shaking apart there was no room left to consider her words. What can I do for you? Well that was a stupid thing to say when the answer was obvious. Pay your bill.
He spoke again, words that made absolutely no sense. “What?”
“I said—“ And now Elle could hear the forced patience. He was repeating something for the third time. “I said, Ms. Thomason, that full payment wasn’t necessary, though I do thank you. We had agreed you could stagger your payments.”
“What?” Her head was ringing. Nothing made sense.
“Are you all right, Ms. Thomason?”
No.
“Ah— Yes, of course. I just don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A long sigh. “Your bill has been settled in full. And I wanted to thank you because we had made an arrangement to stagger your payments over a year.”
She sat up straight, the words having finally penetrated. “The bill has been paid? In full? Who paid that bill, Mr. Bent?”
He made a startled noise. When he spoke his voice was slow and careful. “You did, Ms. Thomason. Or rather”—the sound of computer keys clacking—“a certain Mr. Ross paid on your behalf. A Mr. Nick Ross.”
The cordless handheld slipped from her fingers, clattered to the floor. Mr. Bent’s voice rose like a ghost’s, calling her name.
Elle wrapped her arms around her midriff, trying to contain the pain inside waiting to spill out. It felt exactly as if someone had punched a huge hole in her, ripping out her heart. She rocked, trying to dissipate the pain.
Of course Nick had paid. He’d come back, briefly. Found her looking like an abandoned stray, bereft of everything, thrown her a mercy fuck, got some groceries in the house, and settled her bill.
Then left, of course. Why would he stay?
At some point Mr. Bent must have hung up because the handset on the floor stopped squawking. At some point, the sun moved across the sky. At some point, she stopped shaking.
At some point she recognized deep, deep in her bones, not just in her head, that Nick was never coming back.
As the light was fading from the sky, it started snowing and the temperature in the house dropped, became colder yet. When her fingers and toes started hurting, she got up stiffly, muscles and bones aching.
She moved slowly, as if someone had beat her and she was nursing injuries. Someone had beat her, of course. Nick. It would have hurt much less if he’d actually taken a baseball bat to her because broken bones knit, eventually. Broken hearts? Not so much.
An animal instinct told her she’d been grievously wounded. Something deep inside her had been broken. She shuffled slowly through the house, touching things Nick had touched.
There was no energy in her to put the massive quantities of food away. Just seeing all that food made her nauseous. She could barely bring herself to look at it. She shuffled out of the kitchen, closing the door behind her.
One by one, she closed every door of the house. All the downstairs rooms, pulling the doors gently closed, hardly realizing what she was doing, knowing only that the house should feel the way she did. Empty and closed.
Somehow it had become dark. She didn’t have the energy to turn on the lights. The darkness somehow fit.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. The stairs seemed interminable, like they went all the way up to heaven, though of course there was no heaven. Just the second floor, and her bedroom. The stairs seemed impossible to climb, though she managed it slowly, step by step. She’d been doing impossible for some years now and she could do this, even though each step felt like climbing a mountain. Her legs were weak and could barely carry her. Halfway up, she had to sit on a step and rest her swimming head on her knees. After a while, she got up again, clutched the banister and pulled herself up, step by step. Feeling a hundred years old, she finally made it to the top and shuffled down the corridor.
Elle stopped at the threshold of her dark bedroom, closing her eyes and swallowing heavily.
The room smelled of him. Smelled of primal male, of male sweat and sex and some special pheromonal scent of Nick she would recognize anywhere because it had been imprinted on her skin and in her mind.
Oh God. She had to be quick before she broke down and cried. If she fell onto her bed crying, she would never get up. She felt that, felt deep in her soul that if she gave in to despair she would never recover. There was absolutely nothing left in her to resist the darkness. She’d fall into it and never come out.
/> During the long years of caring for her father, there’d been a wall inside her. Outside she did all the things she should—cared for and loved a husk of a man who didn’t recognize her. Who had forgotten how to feed himself and wash himself. Who required the care a baby would, except this was a 190-pound man. Then a 160-pound man. Then a 120-pound man.
She cared for him, dealt with doctors and medical bills and running a household. But there was always the wall she could retreat behind, and behind that wall she was still Elle Thomason, a young girl and then a young woman with a young woman’s dreams. Behind that wall, if she could get her father to sleep fitfully, she could read books and laugh at TV shows and get indignant at the news she read off the net.
There was a duty-bound robot in front of the wall, but behind that wall was a person—Elle Thomason.
That wall was shattered and there was no place to hide now. Nothing between her and cold reality.
Elle needed to get away from here. She needed it like she needed air. If she continued staying in this cold, dark, and empty house with her father’s ghost and the memory of those few hours with Nick, hours in which she’d felt warm and sexy and alive, in which she’d been a woman and not a pathetic discard, she would die. She’d simply curl up into a ball trying to protect her shattered heart and never get up again.
Her will to live was almost gone and she had to leave this place before it sucked the marrow of her bones.
There was no plan. She was operating entirely on instinct. Some sluggish yet stubborn part of her that insisted on movement, on escape.
Packing—that wasn’t hard. Her wardrobe had been whittled down to basics. And she didn’t want to carry much, anyway. The down coat with the ripped sleeve she should have worn to the burial, two sweaters, three pairs of jeans, warm pajamas, socks, underwear, boots. Everything fit into a large backpack.
She looked around her room carefully. The bed was rumpled, unmade. It was almost like a religious ritual with her to make up the bed as soon as she got up, but there it was—blankets and sheets tossed every which way. She could see semen stains, and a darker splotch that was her blood. For a second the desire to walk over and bury herself in the bedclothes, curl up on the bed and breathe in the smell of Nick, was nearly overwhelming.
I Dream of Danger Page 8
