My apartment is small but warm, cozy in a way that feels lived-in. Books are everywhere—stacked on shelves, windowsills, even the kitchen counter—because my landlord is a total badass who lets me borrow anything I want from the bookstore downstairs.
The apartment came furnished, and I love that about it. It’s the nicest place I’ve lived in…by myself. Jamie’s place was nice. Fancy. A prison. My mausoleum.
“Sweet thing?—”
“I’m tired, let’s get some sleep.” I take his hand in mine and tug him inside.
He’s sad, and I want to comfort him. Not with sex. Not sure if we’re ready for that, but with love. With affection. A hug.
I give him a spare toothbrush and tuck him into bed before I use the bathroom.
He’s lying on his back when I return.
I’m in a T-shirt and panties. He’s sleeping in his boxers. I know he usually sleeps in the nude. But it’s safer if he’s gotsomeclothing on. The chemistry between us is still potent—we both feel it when we touch, kiss.
He holds his arms out. I get under the duvet and into them.
I rest my head on his chest.
“Thank you,” he whispers close to my ear. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”
He gets me. He understands how trust is challenging for me. But he’s earned it back. Day after day. He’s become my friend. My confidante. And, yes, my boyfriend.
“It’s easier than you think,” I admit.
After that, we don’t speak.
His heartbeat is steady.
We just breathe.
And then, we sleep.
23
I’M READY
FAITH
It’s been a week since we slept together, and since then, he’s been in my bed every night. It works out well because then he drops me off at work and picks me up after he closes Ripley’s.
We sleep in. Have lazy breakfasts.
Talk. Openly. Freely.
“Tell me about Jamie,” he asks one night when we’re in bed.
We kiss now. We touch.
We still haven’t gone all the way. I think we like this because it feels like we’re still in the courtship phase. Still getting to know one another.
He strokes my back as I tell him how I thought Jamie was my savior, my knight in shining armor, and how wrong I was.
Cain’s grip tightens when I tell him about the beatings, about the trips to the ER, about how he kept me prisoner. But he continues to comfort me, lets me tell my story at my own pace, in my own way.
“Have you seen a therapist?” Cain asks, voice soft like he’s afraid I’ll bolt.
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Sure. Right after I treat myself to the makeup Melody dropped ten grand on. Maybe I’ll throw in a psychic, too, while I’m at it.”
