Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Bossy
Becky
It’s the morning light that wakes me.
The curtains are drawn, heavy, dark brocade, like it was pulled from another century, but one has slipped open enough to let a thin beam through. It cuts across the room and lands directly on my face, glaring and insistent.
I groan, rubbing at my eyes.
“Carrson?” My voice is rough, unused.
I glance around the room, expecting the shower, footsteps, anything, but there’s nothing.
He’s not here. My chest twinges at that, gone before I can examine it.
I linger a moment longer, listening to the silence, before finally swinging my legs over the side of the bed and letting my feet find the floor.
The motion is slow, like my body hasn’t caught up yet.
That’s when I see it: a folded piece of paper on the nightstand beside my pillow, my name written across the front in blocky, evenly spaced letters. I unfold it carefully.
Becky,
I had to run an errand this morning. I’ll be back soon.
Stay in this room. I mean it. Don’t leave.
No matter what.
—Carrson
I stare at it, my lips pressing together.
So bossy.
Like I’d actually listen.
I exhale and push myself to stand. The world tilts. I go lightheaded, the room swaying under me as if I’ve stepped onto a boat in a rocky sea. I catch the edge of the nightstand while I wait for it to pass.
“Okay. It’s okay,” I murmur.
When the room finally stops spinning, I stand there, breathing through it to make sure it’s done. I’ve already embarrassed myself enough for the week. The last thing I need is for Carrson to come home and find me on the floor.
I make it to the bathroom carefully, one hand brushing the wall as I go. I see the clawfoot tub, and it comes back to me. His chest against my back. His arms around my waist. Heat rises in my cheeks.
I wash my hands, splash water on my face, then lift my head and study my reflection.
I don’t quite recognize the woman in the mirror.
My hair is tangled, frizzing at the ends, my cheeks still flushed from the fever, my lips dry and chapped.
It’s not great, but there’s not much I can do about it.
I don’t trust myself enough to shower. My legs are weak, almost frail, in a way I don’t like acknowledging.
Once I’m done cleaning up, I step back into the bedroom where everything feels like him. Clean but not sterile. Worn but well cared for. Like every object has a place and nothing exists by accident.
I go to his closet, wanting to get dressed.
The hangers clink together when I pull out a shirt first. It swallows me whole, the fabric hanging from my shoulders, the sleeves falling past my hands.
I’m about to pull it off when I catch his scent.
I lift the collar to my nose and inhale.
Clean, warm, with something darker underneath I can’t quite place.
My fingers curl into the fabric as I breathe it in again before I force myself to move.
A pair of pants comes next.
Useless.
I grab a pair of boxers, stepping into them out of sheer stubbornness, but they don’t even pretend to stay up, slipping straight down to my ankles like the idea was ludicrous from the start.
I glare down at them. “Great,” I mutter.
Giving up, I reach for the worn-out shirt and pull it back on. It’s the most comfortable anyway.
Then I go to the chest of drawers by the door, my hand hovering over the handle.
I hesitate, understanding that what I’m about to do is crossing a line I won’t be able to uncross.
I stand there with my fingers resting against the cool wood as doubt rushes through me, until I almost lose my nerve, but then I remember why I’m here.
For Remi.
For all the people like her, whose voices are deemed too small to count.
I glance toward the door, checking to make sure it’s still closed. Everything remains quiet, and that’s all the permission I need.
I turn back to the chest and start searching. The first drawer I try pulls out with a screech, wood sliding against wood, the sound loud and jarring. I freeze, hold my breath, my pulse jumping into my throat as I wait.
Nothing. I keep going.
More drawers slide open, followed by the row of cabinets by the windows. I carefully ease everything open and closed like I can stop the noise if I pay enough attention. The longer I search, the more aware I become of the space around me, of where I am.
His room. His things. His absence screaming louder every second I take advantage of it. I drop to my knees, checking under the bed, along the frame, behind it. Dust collects on my fingertips. The floor creaks, and I shrink into myself, trying to be invisible.
It’s reckless, what I’m doing.
The thought of walking away without answers is worse.
I tell myself it’s an extension of the research I’ve already done on him, his family, and all the important people that come from this place, but there’s another reason buried deep.
I’m curious. I want to know more about him, to understand him.
The man who can’t stand to be touched but carried me home anyway.
I go through everything, drawer by drawer, shelf by shelf. Nothing. No photographs. No keepsakes. Only clothes, books, objects chosen for use, not attachment.
It’s wrong.
I sit back on my heels, my gaze moving over the room like the answer might appear if I keep going. People always leave things behind. Proof they’ve lived somewhere, that they’ve been someone before this.
But Carrson…there’s nothing that tells me who he is or who he was.
Discomfort sets in, even though I tell myself it means he’s careful. Private, which fits everything I already know about him. Maybe it does.
But as I sit there, I can’t shake the feeling this isn’t about what he’s hiding. It’s about what was never there to begin with.
Either way, I haven’t found the information I need, so I tiptoe to the door. I stop in front of it and hesitate, not because I’m unsure, but because I can almost hear him, the commanding tone in his voice, the way he’d glare at me if he were here.
Don’t leave. No matter what.
I wrap my fingers around the handle.
“We’ll see about that,” I whisper.
I turn it.