Page 64 of Sin of Love
Liam’s words ring in my ears, a necessary reminder I recall a hundred times daily. Maybe I’m a selfish asshole for being so miserable, or maybe I didn’t understand how hard this would be. How deeply I’d be triggered by a woman’s incurable suffering.
How helpless I felt to save my schizophrenic, suicidal mother.
My helplessness now.
The world outside my tormented mind is a battlefield of fading sunlight on white sands, green dunes, and skyscraper thunderclouds. It’s beautiful. Worthy of a photograph. Maybe even a painting.
I’m unmoved.
Empty.
Afraid.
Come back to me.
God help me—but I need you.
* * *
My soft knockon the bedroom door is answered with a muted, “Come in.”
Wary of what I’ll find, I carry the dinner tray high up, a useless shield for my heart. It pounds anyway, eager at the sound of her voice.
When I see her sitting up in bed, a copy of Dune by Frank Herbert on the blanket beside her and a frown on her face, I can’t help an inward smile. And I know what’s coming out of her mouth before she says it.
“Why did you bring me this book?”
I bite back a grin. “It was pretty slim pickings in the village. It was that or another puzzle with half the pieces missing.”
She blinks and looks down. Not an outright flinch, but still, her reaction stings. Why does she hate the sound of my voice? I set the tray on the bed, careful not to get too near her. She still curls away from me, arms hugging her torso like flower petals retreating at dusk.
I retreat, too, to the chair beside the door. She usually asks me to leave—won’t touch her food until I’m gone—but I think the smell of melted brown sugar distracts her.
She eats half the bowl of oatmeal. I have to turn away more than once to hide the pathetic tears in my eyes.
Too excited by the prospect of her returning appetite, I completely forget our unspoken rules.
“Would you like anything else?”
“No, thank you.” She doesn’t look up, her face curtained by tangled brown hair. “That was good.”
“Can I do anything else? Help you to the bathroom? Get you another blanket?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure—”
Her head whips up, eyes fierce and furious. “I said I’m fine, Gideon. I can take a piss by myself now. Get the fuck out.”
My jaw clenched, I retrieve the tray from the bed, then leave the room, gently kicking the door closed behind me.
One step.
Two steps…
I make it to the kitchen. Do the dishes. Brew myself a cup of tea. Light a few candles and poke at the dying flames in the fireplace. Sit in an armchair with my journal, an afghan over my legs, and my tea.
Then, finally, I smile.
I smile so hard my face hurts.
You’re still in there, mon bijou.
