Chapter 8 #2
I wanted to make sure you were okay.
That's what he said.
Guilt, he said.
I don't believe him.
Or maybe I do believe him, and that's worse. Maybe guilt is exactly why he did it. Maybe he's been carrying around responsibility for what happened to me like a weight he can't put down.
Maybe I'm just another obligation. Another person he failed to protect. Another name on a list of things Dante Castellani needs to fix.
I rinse the shampoo from my hair. Reach for the conditioner.
The water is starting to cool. I should hurry.
But I don't want to go back out there. Don't want to sit in my living room knowing he's twenty feet away. Don't want to feel whatever I felt when he looked at me and said cara like it meant something.
I turn off the water. Stand there for a moment in the cooling air. Steam swirls around me.
I wrap myself in a towel and step out of the shower. The mirror is fogged over. I wipe a streak across it with my palm and stare at my reflection.
Dark circles under my eyes. Hair dripping onto my shoulders. I look exhausted.
I am exhausted.
I dry off and pull on sweatpants and an old t-shirt. Comfort clothes. The kind of thing I wear when I'm not leaving the apartment and don't care what anyone thinks.
Except someone is in my apartment now.
I hesitate at the bathroom door. Listen for sounds from the bedroom. Nothing. Maybe he fell asleep again. The pain medication should be kicking in by now.
I slip out and pad down the hallway to the living room. The couch is still rumpled from where I tried to sleep last night. I grab a blanket and curl up in the corner, pulling my phone from between the cushions where I left it.
I unlock my phone and start scrolling. News apps. Social media. Anything to fill my brain with something other than the man in my bedroom.
A wildfire in California. A political scandal in Washington. A celebrity divorce that everyone seems to have opinions about. I scroll past all of it without really reading. The words blur together.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Mom.
I stare at the screen. Her contact photo—a picture from last Christmas, her wearing that ridiculous reindeer sweater Dad bought her—stares back at me.
I sigh and answer.
"Hi, Mom."
"Marina! I was just thinking about you." Her voice is bright. Too bright. The voice she uses when she's worried but trying not to show it. "How are you feeling? You sounded tired this morning."
"I'm fine. Just a long day."
"Are you eating?."
"I ate." Not a lie. I had half a granola bar this morning.
"Good, good." She pauses. I can hear her moving around her kitchen. Dishes clinking. "You'll never guess what Linda did."
Linda. Her best friend since college. The woman who shows up at every family gathering with a new conspiracy theory and a casserole that no one wants to eat.
"What did Linda do?"
"She signed up for a pottery class. Can you believe it? At her age. She says she's going to make her own dinnerware set."
I settle deeper into the couch. "That sounds nice."
"Nice? Marina, she's sixty-three years old and she's never made anything in her life. Remember the scarf she tried to knit for your father? It had four arms."
"I remember."
"And now she thinks she's going to be some kind of artist. She showed me pictures of the bowls she wants to make. They look like something from a horror movie."
I let her talk. This is good. This is safe. Linda's pottery disasters are exactly the kind of conversation I need right now. Normal. Mundane. A world where the biggest problem is a lopsided bowl.
"She's already bought a kiln," Mom continues. "A kiln, Marina. For her garage. Her husband is furious. He had to move his entire workshop to make room for it."
"Mmm."
"And she's talking about selling them. At the farmer's market. Can you imagine? People are going to think they're buying fruit bowls and they're going to get... I don't even know what to call them. Abstract nightmares."
My phone buzzes against my ear. A text notification.
I pull the phone away from my face to check. Unknown number.
I miss your curses
I stare at the screen.
That asshole.
"Marina? Are you still there?"
"Yeah, Mom. Sorry. Just got a text."
"Oh, is it work? I don't want to keep you if you're busy."
"No, it's not work." I glance toward the hallway. "Just... someone being annoying."
"A boy?"
"Mom."
"What? I'm just asking. You never tell me anything about your social life."
"There's nothing to tell."
"That's what worries me, sweetheart. You're young. You should be out there meeting people. Having fun."
I look at the text again. I miss your curses.
A smile tugs at my mouth. I hate that it does.
"I meet plenty of people," I say. "I work with kids all day."
"That's not the same thing and you know it."
"Mom."
"Fine, fine. I'll drop it." She sighs dramatically. "But Linda's daughter just got engaged. Did I tell you that? To a very nice accountant. They met at a coffee shop."
"You told me."
"I'm just saying. Coffee shops. You drink coffee."
"Goodbye, Mom."
"I love you, sweetheart. Call me tomorrow?"
"I will. Love you too."
I hang up and stare at my phone.
The text is still there. Waiting.
I should ignore it. I should put my phone down and go to sleep and pretend the last twenty-four hours didn't happen.
Instead, I type back: You're supposed to be resting.
Three dots appear immediately. He's typing.
Hard to rest when I can hear you pacing.
I wasn't pacing. I was sitting perfectly still on my couch.
I'm not pacing.
Your floorboards creak.
I look down at the floor. Old hardwood. The kind that announces every movement.
Maybe you should focus on not dying instead of listening to my floors.
Multitasking.
I shake my head.
But I'm smiling. Actually smiling.
This is bad.
This is very, very bad.