41. Claire
Chapter forty-one
Claire
There are so many things in my mind, but they don’t come out right even when I do try to give voice to them. My head is a mess—I still hurt, everywhere. It feels kind of like getting hit by a truck and then dragged very slowly. Some wounds are healing, while others can’t yet get the break they need to get better.
My head is one of them. I need to not feel something.
No, correction. I need to not think about everything. I need to learn how to shut my brain off without shutting my body off. Instead, it’s like some sort of reversal… my brain is so overloaded, it’s shut down my body to try and process everything going on inside it.
Everything takes energy I don’t have… it’s why I’m still wearing the tank top and sweatpants I dragged on after the bath with Remy. Brushing my teeth has felt like a herculean task that I’ve skipped more than I ever would have dreamed, but then when I get up to pee and get a look at myself, it does nothing to help the self-hatred I am drowning in.
It’s why I haven’t fought him yet on leaving, on letting me go back to my apartment and be alone. Wherever we are, it’s like the penthouse. He has me under his thumb, and yet he’s on the opposite side of the place, and there are doors between us and so much that hasn’t been said. He’s not leaving me alone, but he hasn’t pestered me, and for that, I’ve been content to not have the conversation I will eventually need to.
He brings me food that I don’t eat, books I stare at without reading, clothes I don’t have the desire to step into. Each time he’s come to me, his demeanor is patient, kind, gentle. He doesn’t make me feel broken because I’m still not feeling anything.
But when he comes into my room this time, his energy is different. There’s nothing patient or gentle about the way he throws my door back so hard it has me lifting my face off the pillow and blinking in confusion. He’s also dressed to the nines instead of slumming it with me the way he has for the last few days.
“We’re going out.” He announces, tossing something on the bed. “Come on.”
I just watch him, not ready for the fight he seems to be in the mood for. “No.”
“It wasn’t a question.” He tears the blanket off of me and lets it fall to the floor. “Get up.”
Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll go away.
I close my eyes, and a moment later I feel his hands on my ankles as he tugs me down the bed. “What are you doing?” I accuse, sitting up to try and pull out of his reach.
“I told you; we’re going out. If you don’t get up, I’ll carry you out.”
There’s no smirk on his lips, no teasing. He just looks at me with his jaw set, his eyes hard. He’s annoyed with me, angry, I’m sure that he laid it all out there and I gave him nothing in return. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“Well, too bad this isn’t about what you want. You have three seconds to stand, or I’ll throw you over my shoulder.”
I roll my eyes at him and stand. He’s tall enough that I’m only looking at his chest, the white collar of his shirt so pristine. When I flick my gaze up, he’s watching me without any discernible emotion. I don’t like that.
“Change.”
His eyes indicate whatever he threw at me, now lying on the floor in a heap with the blanket I’ve started to rot into. The black material on the ground is small, and I have no interest in getting dressed up and pretending I’m in one piece when inside, everything feels like it’s splintered. “No.”
He stoops to pick up the dress, which it turns out, isn’t a dress as he hands it to me. It’s a shirt, and he’s got leggings to go with it too. It’s an odd contrast to his attire, and I don’t know what to make of that. “If you won’t get dressed, I will do it for you. This isn’t a choice.”
I vaguely remember him telling me I never had to do anything I didn’t want to with him and wonder what happened to that guy, but I don’t miss him, and I don’t bring it up. But I do strip off the tank top and let it fall to the ground as I take the shirt he offers. His eyes don’t dip to take in my bare breasts, and when I slip the waistband of the pants down to follow my shirt on the floor, he just continues to stare at my face. A bra and underwear just seemed so unnecessary, and I guess he must have agreed, because he didn’t bring me a set.
I stand completely naked in front of him, and he only holds the new clothes out for me, so I take the pants, step into them, and then tug the top over my head. It takes everything in me not to fall back onto the bed when I get it in place, but I only look at him, awaiting the next command. I’m sure it will be something like go brush your teeth or find a hairbrush, but he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he points at a pair of sandals on the ground, so I slip my feet into them and then look up to see him watching me.
The stony fa?ade has cracked, his jaw slackened, and I can’t tell what it is, but he doesn’t look quite so annoyed with me. He reaches up a hand that lands on my cheek, the thumb brushing over my skin. I know he’s seeing the bruises, the blood that still hasn’t receded from the broken vessels.
“Come on.” His voice is softer now as he leads me to the elevator.
It’s not a long ride, and when it dings open, the lobby we exit into is quiet, glossy and clean and so bright it makes me want to crawl back into the elevator. Something about it reminds me of the hospital—similar in its cold sterility.
Remy pulls me swiftly through the space, not the least bit bothered to be seen with me looking like I just crawled out of bed… because I did.
And yet, I’m surprised when the glass door opens before me, and we enter out into a balmy night. It’s late, but judging by the blue in the black sky, it’s not too late. I guess that means he’s not dragging me out for dinner or anything stupid like that.
When we get to the shiny black car waiting for us, he opens my door for me, and gestures for me to get in. When I do, he reaches in, buckling my seatbelt for me. I’m vaguely aware of the fact that I probably smell—it’s been days since I’ve felt human, let alone tried to look like it. But if I do, he doesn’t let on, because as he retreats across me, his eyes find mine.
Something rises in me. It’s just a fluttering, really, but it takes me by surprise enough that my lips fall open. Remy’s hand snakes around the back of my head, and for a moment I think he means to kiss me. And he does, sort of, pressing his mouth to my forehead and breathing me in.
I sit, frozen, as his skin warms mine.
He doesn’t look at me as he pulls back, doesn’t say anything. He just shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side.