16. Fourteen
Fourteen
Eden
The New Year comes and goes. Creed and I don’t touch the alcohol again.
Christmas night we fell asleep in front of the fireplace after hours of giggles and mindless conversation.
The next morning, I woke in my own bed, the blankets tucked around me.
I know who put me there, but there’s no use acknowledging it.
Cecil is kind some days, cold the others; the former being few and far between.
It’s another dreary afternoon. The sky has faded into a darker shade of gray, signaling that dusk is near. The weather reflects my mood exactly. Creed is sick. Fever, cough, body aches, all of it. And Cecil is at work, leaving me to play nurse. Again.
All day I’ve doted on him, ensuring his water glass is full and discarding used tissues. I even drew him an icy bath, hoping it might bring down the fever. He dipped a single big toe into the water and yelped. Not the finest idea, but I’m working with what I’ve got.
And now I’m faced with an even bigger challenge than the stitches debacle. Cooking. Not simple cooking, either. Creed had one request for me, and that was homemade chicken noodle soup. Soup that requires slicing, sauteing, boiling.
“It’s easy,” he assured me. That was an hour and a half ago.
Using the back of my wrist, I brush hair out of my eyes, little tendrils falling onto my forehead from where they’ve escaped the clip.
I’m bent in half over the kitchen counter, my face inches from the monstrosity before me.
The knife is gripped firmly in my fist, but every time my opposite hand comes down to hold the raw chicken in place, I gag.
It’s slimy. It had eyeballs and a brain and—
I heave again, burying my mouth in the crook of my elbow.
Pathetic.
I drop the knife, shooting the bird a dirty look. A piece of hair falls back onto my forehead and sticks, the sweat serving as an adhesive. Groaning, I stomp over to the freezer and stick my head in.
Sucking the cold air in through the nose and out the mouth, I rationalize with myself.
It’s just cooking. This is nothing compared to giving stitches. Technically, that was meat, too.
I stop that train of thought when the muscles in my throat threaten to spew the contents of my stomach all over frozen peas.
“That’s not a very good hiding place,” a deep voice rumbles from behind me. I startle, slamming the freezer door and facing the intruder. Cecil stands with his arms crossed, assessing me.
“Creed isn’t feeling well,” I respond by way of explanation.
“So you’re sticking your head in the freezer?” He comes closer, peering behind me at the ingredients sitting out. A recipe book is propped up against the wall, a clothespin holding it open.
“Yes,” I begin. “I mean no, that’s not why, but yes because—” My signing gets sloppy and confused as I struggle to explain myself. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath before continuing. “I’m making soup, but the chicken is—” I motion to the counter with a grimace. “Gross.”
Cecil merely nods, though I swear I catch a flicker of humor in his eyes. It’s gone before I can be sure.
“He always asks for chicken noodle soup when he’s sick,” he says casually. I’m stunned he’s speaking to me at all. Whenever we’re alone together, he can hardly look at me.
He pushes his sleeves past his forearms, and I have to avert my gaze from the corded muscles. Approaching the counter, he picks up the knife and begins cutting the chicken into sections. The knife cracks through the bone with each powerful slice.
I’m so enthralled that I don’t realize he asked me a question until he looks over his shoulder. Our gazes meet.
“What?” I ask, smoothing my hair back from my face. Making eye contact with Cecil, I feel like a bug beneath a microscope.
“I said, does he have a cold?”
So lost in my thoughts, I hardly compute what he says.
“The chicken?” I ask, lips twisted in confusion.
Cecil narrows his eyes. “Are you feeling okay?” A laugh softens his voice, lifting it from the typical gruff timbre. My fingertips tingle.
“Of course,” I insist, though suddenly I’m not so sure. I’ve never heard him laugh so clearly. Even if it’s at my expense, my heart swells in my chest.
In an attempt to distract myself, I take the pot to the sink and fill it. The hammering in my chest persists.
“Well the chicken is dead and you’re doing fine, so how is my brother?”
The stove top has four knobs, and I twist the first one. The burst of the flame has me jumping back in fear. Another laugh sounds to my left, and I don’t have to look to know Cecil’s watching me. I keep my eyes straight ahead and place the lid on the pot
“He has a fever, some aches. I looked through the medicine cabinet, but wasn’t sure what to use…” I trail off, looking at the cookbook.
“I’ve been making this for years, so I can take it from here.” With the chicken cut, he washes his hands. “I’ll give him Tylenol with his dinner.”
The dismissal stings, though I can’t say why. It’s probably the nicest exchange we’ve had.
Inexplicably, I find myself hovering.
Without taking a moment to second guess myself, I stand at his hip.
“You don’t want help?” I try to keep my expression passive, but I feel like a child seeking approval.
He turns his body toward mine. I shift on my feet. The usual hard set of his jaw is missing, his posture abnormally relaxed. “Would you like to help me, Eden?” he asks simply.
I swallow hard. “It’s the least I could do,” I offer, shrugging my shoulders, though I’m anything but nonchalant.
Cecil hums in response and turns his back on me, walking to my array of ingredients.
“Alright,” he concedes. “But the moment you gag, I’m kicking you out.” He throws a glance over his shoulder, and a smirk plays along his lips. He’s teasing me, something I’ve become familiar with after weeks spent with Creed.
My lips stretch over a shy smile. His eyes zero-in on my mouth, but he’s quick to look away. The tips of his ears turn red. I self-consciously run my tongue over the crooked tooth behind my canine.
Thirty minutes later, most of the work has been done. Cecil peers over my shoulder while I cut the dough into long strips.
“Not bad.” Barely a compliment, but I preen all the same.
“Once you’re finished, we’ll throw them in with everything else.
They cook pretty quickly.” His closeness causes a shiver to run down my spine.
Nodding, I glance at him over my shoulder.
Our faces are only inches apart, and my breath catches in my throat.
Cecil’s pupils dilate.
“You’ve got some…” He raises a hand to my face. The pad of his thumb is rough and warm, and it draws a line across my cheekbone. Subconsciously, I lean into the touch. The moment my cheek makes contact with his palm, he steps back and clears his throat.
“Flour,” he finishes, dusting his hand off on his jeans.
I wish he hadn’t pulled away from me.
I am terribly confused.
While the noodles cook, I lean against the counter and chance a look at Cecil. He’s across the kitchen now, as if he can’t get far enough away from me.
Desperate to mend the situation, I wave my hand for his attention. He rips his gaze from the window to look at me. The tension is back, hardening his features. It takes all my effort not to tuck my tail and flee.
“Thank you for Christmas,” I say, attempting to soften him back up. His cheeks twitch, gnawing from the inside. He looks back to the window.
“It was Creed,” he shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets.
“You got them. I appreciate it. I know…” I frown, tucking my lips between my teeth and lowering my gaze. I’m not even sure if he’s watching what I sign.
“I know you don’t want me here.” There, I said it. What we’ve all been thinking for the past month.
It was clear from the start that Cecil makes all decisions, including mine.
If he told me to go, who am I to argue? I’m a nameless girl that doesn’t exist outside of these walls.
Not to mention, he knows people who want me dead.
My life is entirely in his hands. And I don’t think that’s something he asked for.
“Is that what you think?” He sounds genuinely shocked. “Creed loves you, you know that, don’t you? You make him happier than I’ve ever seen him.”
“What about you?” The question forms before I can stop it, and I wish the ground would swallow me whole.
A grimace flattens his lips. With a tug of his hair, he averts his gaze.
“You don’t need to worry about that, alright? I…” He releases a breath. “I see you. Understand?” His tone is soft again, his shoulders drooping.
I don’t understand.
“I’m glad you two have one another. Knowing your father—” He cuts himself off, and I can tell by the tick in his jaw that he wants to suck the words right back into his mouth.
I close the space between us. He has no choice but to look at me.
“You know my father?” I ask frantically, eyes ping ponging between his. I try to read his expression, hoping it will tell me something that I know he won’t.
“You know I did, Eden. I told you.” He says it sternly, like I should know better. Except he didn’t tell me that. Knowing of someone and knowing someone are two very different things.
“No, you didn’t,” I argue. My vision grows fuzzy around the edges as my heart rate skyrockets. Then, his words settle over me like a wave and I find myself treading water.
“You ‘did’? As in…” My hands begin shaking in earnest, and I struggle to remember signs. “Is my father dead?” I manage to ask. Each breath doesn’t quite fill my lungs.
His hands envelop my own and his brows pull together in concern. “Let’s not talk about this right now,” he tries to convince me, but it’s too late. I’m drowning. I need to know. I’d finally accepted that he wasn’t coming back, but if he’s dead and Cecil knew that—
The light overhead flickers, and Cecil’s eyes shoot up. His face pales.
Flipping my palm over in his, I squeeze firmly and bring it to my own chest to sign a plea. The back of his hand rubs a circle beneath my collar bones.
With a shuddering breath, Cecil’s lips part. “Yes, he is dead.”
The one simple word has my knees buckling, but his hands are already at my waist. How bizarre it is to be held together by the same person who is tearing me apart.
How could he not tell me?
I don’t realize he’s swept me off my feet until I’m sat on a chair, his palms pressing to each side of my neck.
“Breathe, Eden. Come on, look at me,” he insists, his warm scent wafting over me as I choke on my own breaths.
“Look at me,” he repeats, his tone gentler this time. I do. I look at this man who knew my father was dead, and decided to live in his home.
This man who bought me clothing, fed me, and carried me to bed.
It’s impossible to decide who the bad guy is when you’ve never known a good one.
“Remember, there are some things you cannot know. I understand what you’re feeling—”
“Do you!?” I snap at the same moment my grief overflows. He flinches, but quickly catches my tear and wipes it on his jeans. The tip of his thumb is stained red.
“I need you to listen to what I’m telling you: Your father was a horrible man. And when he went, it was his choice. He chose to leave you here. What he did to you…” His voice falters and he shakes his head, glancing around the room.
“Someday, I will answer any question you have. But I can’t today, no matter how much I know you deserve that. All I can offer you is the safety of staying with Creed and me. You keep your mouth shut, and I’ll do the same, remember?”
I hesitate, but I nod.
Time and time again, I’m reminded that I’m at the mercy of those around me. I have never been in control of my own life. Fighting is futile at this point. At the end of the day, the man standing before me is the lesser of two evils.
Cecil exhales heavily, sliding his hands back until he’s cradling the base of my skull. The slight tug of my hair eases the tension in my body and I allow myself to lean further back into his touch. This time, he doesn’t pull away.
One question lingers in my mind. However wrong it may be, the need to know outweighs my morals.
“Did he suffer?” I ask simply, pinning Cecil with my gaze. His eyes darken with fury.
“Not enough.”
A small and shameful part of me wishes the answer had been yes.
Later that night, I sit on Creed’s bedside while he eats his soup.
“It’s okay,” he says, sniffling as he chews. “But you overcooked the noodles."