Chapter 15
Mariah
Ilike Titus’s brothers—I genuinely do. Yes, they’re rowdy and a little annoying, but they seem like genuinely good men.
I'm still considering the ramifications of running Trevor over with Titus’s new side-by-side.
I recognize there’s a large issue that needs to be dealt with, but could he not have given us five more minutes before freaking all the way out and interrupting a moment that I'm going to be thinking about for the rest of my life?
It's also the moment that has resulted in me currently standing in front of Titus’s entire family with flushed cheeks, wild hair, and wet panties. I guess there's good and bad in everything. Thankfully, everyone is so panicked, they don't seem to notice my current state.
"What do you mean, you can't figure out how they got in?
" Titus is pacing across the kitchen, raking his hand through his hair over and over as he talks to whoever's on the other end of his phone call.
"We have an entire system in place to identify anyone who manages to breach it.
If someone can get in without being identified.
.." His words trail off and he stops, turning to his brothers. "I've got to go home."
I almost expect Deidre to look disappointed, but she's already packing up food and shoving it in my hands.
"Go. Take care of this. We will get together another time.
" She passes over a paper shopping bag filled with containers, lowering her voice as she hands it to me.
"Make sure he takes care of himself. Titus can get a little focused and forget everything else. "
I can already see that. The gaze that was laser focused on me just minutes ago is now distant. Far away. Like Titus is already working through the problem at hand.
"I'll make sure he's okay." I give Deidre what I hope is a reassuring smile before moving to where Titus is still frozen in place, seeming almost oblivious to everything happening around him. I hook an arm through his, turning him toward the coat closet.
This time, I'm the one helping him with his coat, getting everything buttoned up before leading him out to the side-by-side.
My steps slow as I swallow hard. Can I even get us back to his house on my own?
It's dark. It's slippery. I don't have faith in my ability to traverse the property on a sunny summer day, let alone a dark winter night.
Luckily, Titus momentarily seems to snap out of the weird work trance he's in. He keeps his arm around me as he helps me get into the passenger side, putting the bag of food in the back before climbing behind the wheel.
He's quiet as he drives, and I can almost see the gears working in his head as he tries to find his way through the problem that’s arisen.
I don't entirely understand what’s going on, so I can't help him in that capacity.
But I can do what Deidre asked. I can make sure he eats and drinks and doesn't go cross-eyed staring at a computer screen for twelve hours straight.
When we reach his house, we pull into the garage, parking next to where my SUV sits. The only time it's been driven since I arrived here was when Titus insisted on pulling it into the heated space. Strangely, I haven't missed venturing out as much as I expected. Being here is peaceful. Calming.
And Titus obviously doesn't mind ordering anything I could want or need. Could the grocery shoppers be better at picking produce? Sure. But they're not so bad I want to brave unfamiliar territory in snow and ice.
After the door is closed, sealing out the cold, Titus unloads me and our food, getting me inside and settled before disappearing upstairs.
Without eating.
I haven't taken Titus a tray in almost two weeks, so it feels a little strange to be back where we began. But this time, when I carry up the plated food his mother sent, Titus’s door isn't closed. It's open.
It's never been open before.
Even after joining me downstairs, Titus has kept his rooms closed, so my stomach clenches in excitement at finally getting a peek into his space.
I'm not sure if he left the door open with intent, or was simply so distracted he forgot to close it, but it feels ridiculous to lay his tray on the floor.
With a deep breath, I step inside his domain.
And it's like starting over all over again.
"Are you kidding me?" I know he’s stressed out. I know he has a huge problem on his plate right now.
But come on.
The room I've entered is the same size and shape as the sitting room in my suite, though Titus uses his as an office. There's a door connecting it to a room that’s dark, but there’s enough illumination from the office that I can see a bed, making his bedroom in the same general spot as mine.
But where my suite is just the sitting room, bedroom, and bathroom, Titus has two more doors off his office.
One probably goes to that laundry room he was bragging about, and the other must go to the workout room I was worried he’d stroke out in.
But those additional rooms aren’t the only difference between his rooms and mine. The major difference is my rooms are clean, and his rooms are...
Absolutely not.
I pick my way across the room so I can slide the tray onto the desk where Titus is aggressively slamming his fingers into a keyboard.
"You need to eat." I know I shouldn’t boss him around, but it seems like someone needs to. Left to his own devices, Titus seems to have only gone through the motions of existing. Working and breathing and that's about it.
My eyes linger on his face, tracing the shiny lines of the scars puckering the still slightly reddened skin of his right side.
I don't have much experience with what the healing process looks like for an injury of the caliber he suffered, but I don't think it's new.
It doesn't look angry or inflamed. Everything seems as healed as it’s going to get.
And I have to wonder how long Titus has just been existing. How many years he's been locked in these rooms, hidden away from the world.
My eyes leave him to drift through the space around us.
I can't imagine looking at these walls day in and day out.
Not just because I like a change of scenery every now and then, but because everything in here is depressing.
Bare-bones and cluttered with discarded water bottles and packing materials from all the orders he's placed to avoid leaving. The air is stale and stagnant, and while it’s not technically dirty in here, it is definitely dusty.
I turn back to discover Titus hasn't even noticed the food I brought him. I'm not surprised. The man seems to be the king of tunnel vision. When he focuses on something, it's like nothing else exists.
And while I like it when that focus is directed at me, I'm not as amused by it when it means he'll go hungry.
Picking up half the pot roast sandwich I fashioned out of the food Deidre sent, I hold it up. "Here."
Titus makes a sound of acknowledgment, but doesn't offer any words as he reaches for the food without taking his eyes off the screen. He continues typing with one hand as he takes a huge bite of the meat, bread, and toppings, chewing through the mouthful as he continues to work.
Satisfied he’s going to get a little something in his stomach, I turn my attention to the office.
It needs help, and I'm going to take advantage of Titus’s distraction to try and make a dent in correcting that.
If he wasn't wrapped up in fixing whatever problem is going on, there's no way he would let me clean up the space.
Not because he doesn't want me messing with his stuff, but because he seems to get nervous whenever I do anything more strenuous than cooking.
Like he's worried I'm going to drop dead or something.
So I quietly slip out of the room to retrieve a few trash bags, shaking them open—since that's a pretty noisy procedure—before sneaking back into his office. I work while Titus works, him doing something technical and way above my pay grade, and me doing what he won't do for himself.
The thought makes my stomach lurch. Because why won't Titus do this for himself? Does he think he deserves to live like this? I can’t imagine it's because he's lazy—the man works like crazy—so that means it has to be something else.
And I have plenty of time to come up with scenarios as I bag up everything that's obviously garbage and roll it down the stairs. Nothing is heavy or gross, so the bags are light and easy enough to just chuck one after the other.
Just clearing away the trash makes a huge difference, but the dusty mustiness still tickles my nose.
I decide it's worth the risk of grabbing his attention to run a vacuum over the carpet.
I locate the attachment from the upstairs closet and hook it into the central system, cringing a little as I switch on.
And learn Titus’s tunnel vision is also apparently tunnel hearing, because he doesn't even flinch at the noise.
Since he seems oblivious, I take my time, cleaning all the nooks and crannies, sucking down every bit of dust and debris I can find.
I get the shelves. I get the ceiling fan.
I sweep along the baseboards and across the windowsills.
I clean it all. I even vacuum under the chair he's sitting in.
Once all that's done, I bring in a can of surface cleaner and a rag so I can wipe all the surfaces. When I’m finished, I'm pretty pleased with how decent the room looks, so I sneak into the next room over.
Flipping on the light, my heart sinks. Not because this room is just as messy as the one before, but because of how empty it is.
It's just a mattress and box spring on a simple frame, covered with sheets and a blanket, a couple pillows piled on top.
There's no furniture. No art on the wall.
No decorations or knickknacks. Just a bed and blinds.