41. Othelia
Chapter forty-one
Othelia
“When did that get here?” Rook sounds cold and closed off. I’ve seen him distant before, but this is different. It’s like he dropped on the mask of someone else. A solid brick wall just shot up around him and I have no idea how to break through.
“Rook.” I step closer to him. Placing my hand on his chest, he flinches, and I snap my hand back, holding it over my heart.
“When did those flowers get here?” I glance back at the bouquet that arrived while I was making breakfast. I’m so confused. Does he think they’re from another guy?
“Rook, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but they mean nothing. I get sent flowers all the time: fans, businesses hoping to endorse me. It’s part of the job.” A few minutes ago he was sexy and smirking at me, and now it’s like a switch has flipped and I’m standing here with a stranger.
“When?” he asks louder this time, almost yelling.
“Uh, I’m not sure. Within the last hour, I was making breakfast when the doorbell rang.” He stalks over and snatches up the card and flowers and stalks towards the bin, opening the lid before slamming the flowers inside. He glares at the note, rereading it before tearing it to shreds and tossing it too before the lid slams shut and I jump back, gripping onto the counter for support.
“I need to go,” is all he says, without even looking at me as he walks towards the stairs, grabbing his jacket off the rail where I hung it this morning after waking from the best night of my life.
“Rook,” I call out, but he ignores me, dressing without the tee I’m still wearing. He slides his foot into one boot as I repeat myself.
“Rook.” Tears are forming, but he continues to lace up his boots like he can’t hear me. As he reaches the door, I lose it.
“Rook, will you fucking look at me!” I scream and he halts with one hand on the door. His shoulders tense and tremble as he struggles to take in each breath. “Baby.” I move towards him, placing my hands on his back. This time he doesn’t flinch, but as I move my arms around his waist to hold him tighter, his body shakes with sobs.
“I can’t do this,” his voice breaks and my own tears fall. “He took her. He can’t have you.”
Turning in my arms, he holds me. I grip onto him, hoping I can hold him tight enough to never let him slip away. He presses his face into my shoulder as he shakes.
“We can work through whatever this is,” I say.
“We can’t. He won’t let me. I’m meant to be alone. Just like him.”
He grips the back of my neck as he squeezes us together, like he is shielding me from an enemy I can’t see.
“Rook, I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t want you to see this part of my life. I didn’t want him to touch you.”
“Who are you talking about?” It feels as if I’m staring at a puzzle, so close to discovering the complete picture, yet that one elusive piece refuses to slot into place.
He looks up at me like a boy haunted, his eyes puffy and bloodshot.
“My father.”