54. Dollie—present day
Dollie—present day
I t’s been a week of wining and dining, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t enjoyed the three shopping trips, two meals out, and endless dog walks. Bubbles hasn’t, having not warmed up to Shane in this time. That’s why she’s wandered off to a different room in this house.
But I’ve warmed up to Shane—I really have.
That’s an easier lie to believe when I’m nowhere near Ambrose.
That’s why I’ve avoided him for the last week and made adjustments to make my days easier with Shane. Like not bring up any of the stuff he’s done recently, or consider wearing any of the new gloves he’d gifted me on our shopping trips.
Give and take, that’s what makes a relationship work.
We aren’t officially back together, but we’re holding on to each other.
He’s stayed all week, and it hasn’t felt like an invasion. Maybe only because I didn’t want to stay in my room alone after cleaning it out.
Those pink walls no longer feel like paradise. The room is almost empty, like a pretty pastel prison.
I miss the chaise lounge and Bubbles waking me up by licking my toes or nibbling on them when she’s pulling off my socks if I forgot to do so before sleep.
She still won’t venture to the second floor, which frightens me. What does she see up there?
My parents? Do they stand in the dried blood, looking down and moaning about how they never wanted a dog?
Do they hate her?
They couldn’t possibly.
I’ll get the sage out later and add some crystals to the hallway until we can get that carpet up. Annabelle spoke to Nyx about it yesterday. He doesn’t have time this week, but he’s marked it in his calendar for next week.
Knowing that it’s going has made my day easier today, leading to a carefree morning, brightening up the reading room with paint I didn’t pay for.
Somewhere between opening the tin and splashing color around, Shane and I set the paintbrushes down.
I’m not sure exactly how we got here, but I can’t take it anymore.
Tears roll down my face from laughing so much as Shane’s fingers dig into my skin, tickling me.
We’d never played before, not in all the years we were together. And as basic as this is, to randomly get lost in each other while we were trying to paint the skirting boards pink, this feels like just what we need.
And he initiated it.
It’s our first day together since the blow-up, where I haven’t seen another woman’s face as I stare at him. Where I haven’t wished he were someone else.
Maybe this really can be a fresh start for us.
He pins me beneath him, his hands making it to my weak spot between my thighs, where I’m most ticklish, and I break out in a cackle.
It’s impossible to get under his arms to get him back, and in my hysterics, I hit out and catch the paintbrush, knocking it from the can. It splatters the floor with the beautiful color that works much better on the house’s interior than the exterior.
But God, this needs to stop.
It’s just too much, and I’m not sure if I’m about to hyperventilate from laughing so hard or cry because my senses are close to overload.
Either way, tears accumulate in my eyes.
Desperation leads me back to the paintbrush, and I reach for it on the floor and flick it across his cheek. I’m still laughing when he shoots back because it’s too late, and I got him.
Wiping it off, laughing too, he catches me off guard with his words, “Don’t do that to me, you ugly fucker.”
Shock widens my mouth, and I have no way of responding other than to drop the paintbrush and stain the floor again.
While still on the ground, the air trapped inside pushes the tears out of the corners of my eyes.
“Dollancie, I was kidding. It was a joke,” he tells me, still laughing.
He looms down on me and forces me into a hug.
“No, it’s too much.” The forced comfort. The painful words. I feel my senses kick up a gear, edging to an overload when he refuses to let go. “I don’t want a cuddle. I need some space.” He ignores my needs. “I really need some space, Shane.”
“I wasn’t serious.” He kisses my hair, forcing that too.
The kiss distracts him enough for me to push him away and slide out from beneath him.
A safe distance forms between us.
“Why did you choose that word?” I ask, but he’s looking around me to the corner of the room where shadows are notorious for lurking.
“It was just a joke. You’re not exactly ugly, are you?” His eyes stay behind me.
I can’t even turn around to glance at who might be there. I’m taking in enough faces as I stare at Shane, seeing all the women he’s called beautiful.
I realize I’m rocking and force myself to stop.
“It was just a joke.” His eyes are finally on me, and his hand rests on my leg.
He rubs my skin once, and I use my legs to push myself away.
“But you should have thought about how that word—that specific word—would make me feel.” I can’t help saying what comes out next. “You’ve called so many other women beautiful. Even if it was a joke, you should know that would hurt.”
“You’re looking into it too much. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
I nod, not seeing Shane sitting before me, seeing Olive and the Princess and all the other beautiful women.
“I need some space.” Hurrying over the wood floor in my long socks, I rush away from Shane.
Tears burn my eyes as I try to keep them contained. Too many of them have already crept out, and I can’t let them all fall until I’m tucked safe somewhere else in the house.
Avoiding the creepy corner he can barely pull his eyes from, I turn and find myself in the foyer. Desperate to get away from the memories of Shane’s hand around my throat, the shard to my chest, Ambrose stopping him from shoving it through my skin, I race into the music room.
It’s a relief when all my thoughts fade to nothing and there’s no sound of heavier footsteps trailing behind me.
Shane has finally given me the space I need.
The second the door clicks shut, and I have privacy, a stream of tears rush out.
A melodic yawn calls me around to see all the old—and broken—instruments and pictures of long-forgotten children on the wall. The vandals weren’t careful in this room.
I’m so grateful they’ve stopped visiting.
My eyes move from all the broken things and drop to Bubbles with her legs stretched out, wedged between a coffee table and the old sofa that Dad picked out for comfort purposes.
Ambrose rests on it, a hand lost in Bubbles’ thick fur and the other holding my pretty pink edition of Jane Eyre that he glances over.
“You have my book,” I say, wiping tears on my pink sleeve.
The look on his face challenges me.
It was never my book. It was ours.
“I didn’t know you guys were in here.” I step deeper into the room.
Sofa cushions sink as Ambrose pushes himself into a sitting position. Something like concern hides beneath the white paint as I sit opposite him.
I’m not comfortable.
Sensing that, he moves over a cushion and taps the one at his side, knowing it’s always been my spot. The spot where Dad would read me stories before carrying me up to bed, where I’d huddle whenever Ambrose hogged the piano.
Slow steps take me there, and I flop down next to him close enough for me to watch how his red lips move.
Why are you upset?
“It’s nothing.” I shake my head, letting my hand drop to Bubbles’ fur. My fingers take in the recently conditioned feel, and I use her to keep myself grounded. “I took something Shane said the wrong way.”
I wipe the tear that lands on the pretty edition of Jane Eyre with the sleeve of my hoodie, and sigh with frustration when I see the paint smeared up the side of it. Luckily, the book didn’t succumb to the same fate and isn’t stained when my eyes rush back to check.
“What chapter are you on?” A subject change is probably good.
Flicking back the pages while keeping track of his spot, he flashes the numerals at me.
Twenty-seven.
Just a little further along than I made it.
Red lips move again, asking me a question. What did Shane say?
I don’t hesitate to tell Ambrose what happened, the words fall out of me. “He called me ugly. It was a joke, but it hurt. I don’t know if you know the details of what happened that night you pulled him away from me?” I keep my head low and tread carefully, not wanting this to escalate.
Shane has never been fond of Ambrose, and the feeling is mutual.
“But we were arguing over him messaging other women. I saw lots of stuff on his phone where they were all in underwear, and I told him he should leave because of it. He told me I was overreacting, and things blew up from there. He called them all beautiful. So, to make a joke where he calls me ugly, it hurts.” I brave a glance at his face.
“Please, don’t say it’s my own fault for acknowledging him another time. ”
Ambrose shakes his head, and it feels like he’s saying anything but I told you so.
“I know you guys aren’t keen on each other.”
A noise leaves him, and I don’t know what he’s feeling right now.
“But if we can make amends, maybe you guys can, too. Who knows, maybe you’ll actually be friends one day. I’m not sure if he’s joking or not, but Shane has mentioned you walking me—” Ambrose shushes me for the first time. Like, he knows what I’m about to say about him walking me down the aisle.
His enchanting eyes flick to my ring finger. Every color, green, brown, hazel, all dance in the natural light, and that love heart stands out. But no ring shines in the natural light, peeping in from the window. It’s still missing from that night.
Not fucking happening, those silent words slap me in the face as our eyes meet.
The sheen glossing his eyes matches mine. I find it hard to pull myself away from him, from the way he looks at me and the way my reflection gazes back at me in them. I’ve never had issues looking Ambrose in the eyes…everyone else, yes. Never him.
Before I know it, I’m staring.
I’m leaning into him and the comfort he offers.
“I’m sorry.” I pull back. “I’m just feeling down.” I dip my head again. “Why did he have to use that word?”