Stephanie
EIGHTEEN
Some women collect purses. I collect emotional support nail polish.
If there were a prize for pretending one is not falling apart, then I believe I would take first. I’m not sure when the ability developed, perhaps somewhere between my upbringing where perfection was the only option and the way everyone swept my assault under the rug like a dirty secret.
But I relish the thought of tormenting this man with all my extraness. He seems like he needs a little more color in his world, and I am more than happy to deliver it.
“Before consuming puerile entertainment, come grab some spare clothes.”
I can’t help the way my traitorous heart squeezes when he references having women’s clothing at his secret hideout. Which lucky lady got past this man’s huge defenses to leave some of her belongings here?
I hop to my feet and follow him as he stalks into the bedroom he sent me to earlier. He points at the huge bed with perfectly pressed white bedding that looks made for a photoshoot. “Your bed.”
“Nice, thank you.”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder like he’s surprised I’m here. It’s not like I have bad manners, so it can’t be because he’s never heard gratitude fall from my lips before now.
“Bathroom, you already know.”
“What’s through the other door?”
“My room.”
“Oh, are we sharing a toothbrush? Happy for my salvia to be on your tongue?”
His steps falter before he spins on his heel, drops his eyes to my lips, and drags a hand down his face like he wishes he were anywhere else but here.
This wasn’t exactly on my bucket list for my first year out of the institute, but I’m an expert at making lemonade no matter the quality or quantity of lemons the universe delivers.
He shakes his head as he opens a closet and switches on a light. It’s compact but still amazing considering it’s the guest suite. I move inside to look around, pulling out drawers and opening cupboards like the feral goblin I hide beneath the perfect exterior.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” he utters.
Yes, clues to the woman who owns these mysterious clothes as well as the promised garments themselves.
“Mothballs.”
He shakes his head as he opens a drawer and nods at the stacks of muted cotton colors.
I frown as I pull out a grey pair of sweats.
I am not one to sit on questions and let them spiral in my mind, which, without oversight, is a scary place.
So I gather my courage and voice my questions.
“Why are your girlfriend’s clothes in the guest room?
” That wasn’t actually my question, but it kills two birds with one stone.
He tilts his head. “Why would their clothes be in here? If I brought a woman here and decided to lay down roots, her dresses would be hanging next to my shirts.”
Which means he doesn’t have a girlfriend, and these clothes are, what? I notice the tags clearly showing that they’re new.
He sighs at my silence. “I have them on hand at all of my properties. The girls I pry away from the organization need comfort, safety, and cleanliness. That’s what Agent Sinclair advised.”
That makes sense, and yet he believes himself to still be a bad person. That aspect of him runs so deep it’s probably impossible to alter. “So they come here?”
He shakes his head. “No, this is the one place I don’t share. But I keep them to throw in the car when needed.”
Can’t he see the thoughtfulness behind each of these actions?
I don’t believe the universe operates on balances, like offsetting your bad actions with good and hoping that gets you in the right direction once you die.
It’s all in the intention. Did you set out to hurt someone?
Do you take pleasure in their pain? But these are deep and meaningful conversations best reserved for another day.
I grab a white T-shirt from the drawer and offer him a smile of thanks. “Is it okay for me to use the shower?”
He doesn’t move until I slide my eyes toward the door.
He clears his throat and opens the lowest drawer to reveal a pile of unassuming, comfortable cotton underwear. “Help yourself. I’ll place an order for anything else you need.”
I dangle a pair of black cotton panties from my finger. I can’t resist a little needling.
He sighs and turns to leave. “Going to hell,” he grumbles as he leaves me alone.
I take my time exploring the guest room, then experiment in the shower with no fewer than fourteen settings. What happened to turning it on and just rolling with it?
I find a new toothbrush and decide not to push my host. Not today, anyway. I’m sure there is time for that. I’m just grateful to finally be somewhere off the grid where I can breathe and digest everything that’s happened over the last few days.
By the time I emerge in the soft new clothes, hair washed and wet and hanging down my back, there is a scent of rich tomato sauce brewing in the air.
My stomach rumbles as I pad barefoot on the polished wooden floor.
This lodge is stunning. I didn’t get a chance to fully appreciate it, but it’s being cared for by someone who wants to create not just a home but a haven.
I eyeball the grand piano in a room filled with floor to ceiling bookcases and vow to explore that after I torment the man who is always looking for an excuse to leave my orbit.
I follow the scent into the open-plan kitchen where James stands over a pan, sleeves rolled to his forearms as he stirs a rich tomato sauce with the same concentration most people reserve for diffusing bombs.
“You cook?”
He glances over his shoulder. “People tend to require food.”
“I wasn’t sure you consumed anything except black coffee and guilt.”
His shoulders rise with the smallest breath that might almost be amusement. “I’ve got something for you.”
My mind spins in several wildly inappropriate directions.
He crosses to the long dining table where an open laptop sits beside a neat stack of files. I skim my hand over the smooth wood and marvel at the unusual threads of melted copper infused with the rich mahogany.
He points at the computer screen. A browser window fills the screen with what appears to be a supermarket order. “I’ve started a basket. Add whatever you need.”
I grin. “You trust me not to buy a thousand bottles of hair mask?”
“What is a hair mask?” He shakes his head. “Actually, don’t tell me. I trust my card limit.”
I narrow my eyes before sliding into the chair. “You’re no fun.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He disappears back to the kitchen, leaving me completely unattended with his laptop.
Either he’s incredibly trusting, or he’s sure I won’t find anything. Naturally, I decide to test that theory.
The shopping basket already contains toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, moisturiser, deodorant, socks, sneakers, jeans, three plain T-shirts, and enough groceries to survive a zombie apocalypse. Oh, and batteries for the aforementioned apocalypse. How reassuring.
Practical. Predictable. Clueless male and hopelessly James.
I begin adding things with considerably more personality.
Chocolate. Hot chocolate. Marshmallows. Strawberry shampoo because the bottle is pink.
A ridiculously fluffy dressing gown. Three candles with various scents.
A notebook. Five pens because one always disappears into another dimension.
Face masks. Hair masks. A ridiculous number of hair ties that will last me about a month if I’m careful. Seriously, where do they disappear to?
I reach the nail polish section, and my gaze narrows, my finger stilling above the trackpad. I began painting my nails when I was admitted to the institute. It’s not vanity. Some days, I don’t have words for what sits inside my chest, but color has always understood me.
Black when I need armor. Red when I refuse to be ignored. Blue when my thoughts won’t settle. Soft pink when I’m pretending everything is okay. Yellow when I’m determined it will be.
I don’t hesitate. Into the basket goes black. Ruby. Forest green. Midnight blue. Lilac. Coral. Silver glitter because sometimes life simply requires glitter.
By the time I’m finished, there are twelve bottles sitting in the basket. Is that enough? I add two more at random and let the universe decide.
“Planning to open a salon?”
I jump and gasp. James didn’t make a sound crossing the room.
I swivel the laptop slightly to hide my color-coded therapy from him. “No.”
His eyes flick to the screen. “Sixteen?”
I must have added an extra four. Oops. “I contain multitudes.”
“I’ve noticed.” His gaze lingers on the list for another second before he simply nods. “Add more if you need them.”
No questions. No judgement. Just quiet acceptance. That catches me off guard more than if he’d laughed.
He lays placemats on the table and retreats to the kitchen.
As I reach for the trackpad again, a notification appears in the top corner of the screen.
Daisy: I’m on vacation for the next fortnight. If you need me...
The little preview disappears almost as quickly as it arrived. I stare at the empty corner of the screen. Who’s Daisy? The ridiculous squeeze low in my stomach arrives before logic catches up. I have no rights to this man, and anything I feel is bad news for him, for me, and everyone we care about.
I don’t assume he’s celibate. When you look like him and have that quiet yet unmovable aura, people flock to you.
He delivers two glasses of orange soda to the table and drags his phone out of his pocket and frowns. Of course, they’re linked. So now I have two options: pretend I didn’t see it, or ask him outright who Daisy is.
I aim for causal and somewhere in the middle. “You can answer it if you like,” I say, sounding overly enthusiastic even to my own ears. I wince inwardly. Why would he need my damn permission to answer his own phone?
He looks up. “It’s fine.” He doesn’t press the notification. Instead, he slips his phone back into his pocket. “Food will be ready in ten.”
I nod like I haven’t spent the last thirty seconds wondering who Daisy is and why he would need her. It’s definitely not my business. Definitely not something my brain needs to investigate.
My stomach chooses that moment to remind me I’ve barely eaten, so I concentrate on the gnawing emptiness instead. Or at least I try. “What are we having, chef?” I call out as he stalks back into the kitchen.
“Meatballs and pasta.”
“Yum, one of my favorites.”
I stand and fold my arms over my stomach. The lodge demands exploring. Every room opens into another, each one carrying the same quiet sense of purpose. Nothing here exists simply because it looks expensive. Everything has been chosen because someone might need it.
A thick blanket folded over the back of the sofa. Books covering subjects from psychology to astronomy. A cupboard full of board games and puzzles, still in their plastic wrapping.
A basket of dog toys that brings a smile to my face. I have to wonder if they are for Charlie, my brother’s lovebug spaniel who treats your space as his space.
My attention drifts beyond the sitting area until it settles on the grand piano tucked beside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Its polished black surface catches the afternoon light, throwing soft reflections across the room.
Beautiful. Quiet. Waiting. I’m drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
The wood is cool beneath my fingertips as I brush them across the closed lid.
“You can open it.” James’s voice carries through the lodge.
I glance over my shoulder to find him watching me with quiet interest. “You sure?”
“It doesn’t bite.”
“I wasn’t worried about the piano.”
His mouth threatens the smallest twitch before disappearing again.
I lift the fallboard. The ivory keys gleam back at me, and for a moment, the smallest fraction of a second, my trembling fingers remember where they belong.
Middle C. The weight of an octave beneath my hand.
My fingertips tingle with awareness. No, strike that. With anticipation. The ache blooms, and I curl my fingers into my palm before they can touch a single note.
“You play?” he rumbles. The question is gentle, careful even. But asked without expectation.
I stare down at the keys as my mouth dries. “I used to.”
Silence settles between us.
“When?”
The answer sticks somewhere behind my ribs. “College.” He doesn’t push me further, and that gives me the confidence to offer more. “I haven’t played since.”
I let the fallboard drift closed with a soft click. “I think...” I force a smile that doesn’t quite reach the rest of me. “Some parts of your life become collateral damage. You don’t notice they’ve disappeared until years later when someone asks an innocent question.”
James falls quiet as I lose myself to the fantasy that one day I might find the urge to play once more. It won’t happen. The girl who sat at a piano disappeared years ago. Every version of me since has simply learned how to survive.
“It’s there if you ever decide you want to,” he offers. My eyes prickle as I finally look at him. He nods at the piano. “It’s here.”
No speeches. No encouragement. No insistence like many therapists use, declaring that music heals the soul. It does, but it also strips you bare.
Just two simple words. It’s here. The ridiculous thing is, those words feel bigger than any inspirational speech ever could.
Later, as I fall asleep, I realize something important. A critical question I didn’t ask. Does he play? And if the answer is no, why on earth does he have an expensive piano?