Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER TWELV E
CLAIRE
I’ve started making a list of tasks to do around the apartment—little things to keep myself busy and, hopefully, make myself useful. Mark didn’t ask me to do this, but with the amount he’s offered to pay me, I’ll feel guilty sitting around doing the bare minimum, and I’ve already managed to get a lot done in the past few days. Plus, tasks like this are comforting for me in an odd sort of way; I may not know what I’m doing when it comes to most things in the "real world," but cooking, cleaning, and housework are what I was raised to do. Back at home, there was no higher position for a woman than a docile, committed housewife.
As silly as it seems, it’s one of the few things I don’t resent from my past. I’ve always enjoyed these sorts of things—the mindless, repetitive nature of doing laundry, the satisfaction of seeing people enjoy a meal I worked hard to make well, the feeling of doing a hard day’s work and seeing the efforts reflected in the clean orderliness of the house. It’s something that, no matter where I am, has the same effect.
I jot down, "Clean the windows" in the small notebook I’ve been carrying around. In reality, there’s not a ton of cleaning to do. He keeps this place surprisingly tidy, so my list of things to do is becoming more and more specific. I make my way down the hallway and open the door to the hall closet, noting the partially folded blankets and the random items scattered about—board games, empty picture frames, various knick-knacks. I add, "Organize the hall closet" to my list.
Mark’s muffled voice drifts into the hallway despite his closed office door. I shut the closet door quietly, knowing I shouldn’t be eavesdropping but unable to resist, especially when I hear the frustrated tone of his voice.
"I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing," he says. My heart hammers in my chest as I take a small step closer to the door.
There’s a pause, then a scoff. "Of course I’m not going to fuck her. Don’t be ridiculous."
I hold my breath and will my pulse to slow. He can’t be talking about me, right? He’s probably just referencing an ex-girlfriend.
I should leave. I should stop listening. But my feet are rooted to the floor, and my thoughts spiral in a direction I can’t control.
"No. She’s also fifteen years younger than me. She’s a lost kid trying to figure life out. I’m seriously just giving her a place to stay. That’s it."
A pause.
"Yes, that matters! There’s more to it than that, anyway—"
He keeps talking, but I don’t stick around to listen. My stomach churns as I quickly and quietly make my way to my room, shame and embarrassment weighing down on my chest. I shouldn’t feel bad about that—shouldn’t care at all—but somehow, the disgust in his voice feels like a slap in the face. It’s not like I want to… well, do that with him, but there’s something in the way he said it, like the idea of being with me is so repulsive it’s laughable. Because I’m such a lost kid , apparently.
But what did I expect? Obviously Mark is older than me, but that never seemed like such a big deal, especially where I’m from. I’m sure it’s just his excuse, an easy explanation, because he’s also everything I’m not. Successful, intelligent, confident, attractive.
I know I’m a bit plain. I’ve never worn makeup, have no clothing that shows my shape—both were frowned upon at home—, so I have no clue how to make myself desirable because I spent my whole life actively trying to do the opposite.
So why am I surprised he’s not interested in me?
I’m a broken girl, so much younger than him and so far behind people my age. If I’d had a normal childhood, I would be a completely different person right now. I’d be finishing up college in the next year or two, dating guys, probably living in my own little apartment and spending weekends going to the bars with friends. But instead, I’m living with a man I just met out of sheer desperation, with no friends, no education, and only a stubborn thread of hope.
I don’t blame him for laughing at the very idea of being with me.
I pick up the pen and finish my list, ignoring the lump in my throat, then decide to cook dinner. Maybe that will help. I move around the kitchen, setting pots and pans on the stovetop before I get to work chopping vegetables.
Cooking is a safe task. It keeps my hands busy and my thoughts in check. I make mental notes about groceries we’ll need as I begin mixing ingredients. When Mark finally comes into the room, I hear his footsteps before he speaks.
"It smells good," he says in a casual voice. It’s a far cry from the affronted tone he used while he was on the phone.
"Thanks."
He lingers just on the edge of my peripheral vision. "How was your day?"
"It was fine." I plate our food and walk past him to set the plates on the table without meeting his eyes.
"Claire." His tone is firm.
I turn to face him, schooling my expression to one of indifference. "Yes?"
"What’s wrong?"
I pause. Do I tell him the truth? He clearly notices something’s off.
Before I can decide how to answer him, something shifts in his expression as the pieces click together in his mind. "Did you happen to overhear any of my phone conversation earlier?"
My heart skips. Uh oh. I nod, unable to lie but wishing desperately that I hadn’t been standing in the hall.
"And you’re upset by what you overheard." It’s more of a statement than a question.
I glance down at the floor. "I don’t know. Kind of, I guess."
He sits in his chair and crosses his arms, but he doesn’t look angry. In fact, he looks almost amused as I meet his gaze.
"Are you unhappy that I said I wouldn’t fuck you, Claire?"
The bluntness of his question shocks me, and I almost choke on my own saliva. "It’s not that," I stammer. "Well, not exactly . I just…" I trail off, unsure how to put it into words.
He waits, his eyebrow cocked and his expression infuriatingly smug. Why does he have to be so attractive? And why does his unwavering stare after saying something so crude make my stomach swoop and my heart race?
"It’s just difficult," I finally say, "to feel so undesirable sometimes."
As soon as the confession leaves my lips, I wish I hadn’t said it. I brace myself for him to laugh, to dismiss me as childish and insecure, but when his low chuckle fills the room, it’s not cruel. It’s surprised.
"Is that really what you think?"
"Uh, yeah."
Mark closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly, like I’ve said something absurd. "It’s not that at all."
"Then what?" I challenge.
He takes a step toward me before seeming to catch himself and stopping a couple feet away, his expression softening. "You’re too desirable, Claire. I’m struggling to not want you. But you’re very young—especially compared to me—and I don’t want to corrupt you."
The words hang between us, heavy with implications I don’t fully understand.
"I don’t know exactly what you’ve been through," he continues, "but I can imagine that you and I want very different things from a relationship. If I ever crossed a line with you, if I ever hurt you, I wouldn’t forgive myself."
His gaze locks on mine, and for a moment, the world is still. The vulnerability in his voice catches me off guard, and I don’t know how to respond.
"I see," I manage to say, though I’m not sure I do.