Razor Blade Revelation
For the first time since, hell, who knows how long, I wake up to the smell of food, to the popping of grease in a pan, and a soft layer of smoke from the hall.
Not the heavy kind that would signal something was burnt or any kind of danger, but the kind that means bacon is crisping in its own fat.
My mouth waters as I stretch, my head snapping up from the pillow when something thuds against the floor.
Krissy.
It’s odd seeing something that used to bring you so much comfort.
The desire to pick her off the floor, fix her old, stained dress, and cuddle her close is nearly overwhelming.
I’d like to say I’d just grown out of Krissy on my own, that my mom’s snide remarks finally landed.
One day, I sat her down for the last time and just never thought to pick her up again, but that isn’t the case.
It was a weird sort of self-abuse after Dad died.
Why should I be comforted while he was in the ground?
It followed no logical thinking, but it kept her in her spot below my side table, close but not in my arms. Less than eight months later, I was the only one left.
Mom had dipped with her new husband before Maynard Fisher had even cooled in his grave.
After the new guy kicked his wife to the curb, of course.
Dad was dead. Mom was pretending Swindon, Michigan, didn’t exist. Gideon… well, that had crashed and burned.
It was only me left.
I was determined to be alone. Most everyone, aside from the Jordan siblings, was fine with that too. Too many topics to skirt around for polite conversation with anyone else.
How was your night? I spent it sobbing on the shower floor with a razor blade pressed into my wrist.
Truck still running alright? No, something's wrong with it, and my dad is dead.
Did you have dinner? Yes, I only eat once a day, and it's so much food that I throw up afterward. Not sure why I’m doing that now, but I can’t stop.
Are you seeing anyone? Not really, I started sleeping with a girl, but I pictured my ex-best friend the whole time.
My eyes slide to the windows, the setting sun beyond them, trying my best not to think of the way his blue eyes tracked over every inch of my flesh.
The way it felt as he pressed his lips against my head, how badly I wanted them somewhere else.
Everywhere else. I’d been begging him, in my mind. Screaming for him to do it.
It looked like he’d been begging too.
In his own Gideon way, at least, which is more of a demand than anything.
As disconcerting and odd as he is, I think it might’ve snapped the last few intact pieces of me that remained had Gideon returned normal.
Had he grown out of his dark-rimmed glasses, intense stares, and frank, matter-of-fact way of speaking.
A groan leaves my throat as I jerk my pillow off my bed, slamming it over my face.
My legs curling up as I release a silent scream into the case.
Bryan is dead.
Gideon is in my house.
And he wants me.
When I search real deep down, okay, maybe just surface level, I only really care about one of those things.
I flinch as the pillow is ripped away, revealing my flushed face and wide eyes. Gideon’s arm flexes as he tosses the pillow to the end of the bed. “Dinner is ready.”
I open my mouth to respond, only to snap it shut again.
Because what the fuck can I possibly say?
Because none of this makes any sense, and I’m more discombobulated now than I was the day he left.
There are no rules this time. No curfew, schooling, Mom or Dad to tell me what to do with myself.
There are no arbitrary standards like don’t try to kiss your best friend or stare at his arms for too long.
There’s no comfort or familiarity of having grown up beside someone, and yet just enough for there to be a constant pang in my chest.
I could do anything.
I could take my breasts out of my flimsy tank top and see if he’d touch them; I could kick him in the balls for being here. For having the audacity to cook food in my kitchen as if nothing has changed. Cry, scream, run, slap, laugh, hug…
And the worst part?
Gideon would let me.
So I just nod. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
He just stands there.
“I need to get dressed,” I offer.
He hikes a brow.
“And pee.”
My lips quirk into an almost smile until the familiarity of the game sets in, until bitterness takes the humor's place. He won’t budge an inch until he sees me actually get out of bed.
It’s not that I have no backbone, that I always stray toward the path of least resistance, but those things are partially true.
When it really, really matters, I’d do the harder thing, I think.
I’d stand up for myself and fight even if it’s exhausting.
Right now, I just want to eat the food he made for me.
Certainly not because I actually want him in my house; I do not.
He watches intently as I shift the covers over my legs, standing a little too fast, casting him a loaded, happy-now look before stomping into the bathroom down the hall.
When I finish up in the bathroom, I feel a little more reasonable, a little more grounded. Brushed teeth, deodorant, and braided hair around an attractive guy goes a long way. I steel myself as I track down the hall toward the smell of food.
Eat, thank him, and ask him to leave. Simple.
When I turn the corner, it’s his back that faces me.
Honed muscle and lean, clothed flesh. Gideon seems to eat up any space he occupies, so much so that it takes me a few pregnant seconds to realize what has captured his attention so thoroughly.
He drags a cloth over the top of the shadow box displaying my dad’s flag and medals.
Wiping away months’ worth of dust. The shame I feel watching it come off onto the rag is nearly enough to ruin my appetite.
“I didn’t know he’d died until years later. Dad never said anything.”
Tearing my eyes from him and the shadow box, he gently adjusts it on the mantle easily enough, walking past both of them only sightly harder. “Why would he have?”
“Aud—"
“Thank you for cooking…” I pause, looking at the now immaculate state of my home, my face burning with embarrassment. “…and cleaning, but I’m okay now. The news about Bryan caught me off guard, is all. I appreciate you staying, but—“
“Did Jackson embalm him?”
I stop, a plate halfway out of the cabinet. “That’s a twisted question, don’t you think?”
“Did he do a good job?” he asks, undisturbed as he comes up beside me, taking the plate from my frozen form. I watch blankly as he fills it with eggs, pancakes, and bacon. Breakfast for dinner has always been my favorite.
My thoughts are numb as I walk to the couch in the living room, plopping down unceremoniously. Avoiding looking at the lazy boy in the corner that’s sat mostly unoccupied since Dad died. “Good enough, I suppose.”
Gideon appears in front of me again, handing off the heavy, food-laden plate. When I reach out trying to take it from him, but he holds it tighter, exasperation pushing an unladylike sound from my throat.
“Audrey, I’m sorry.”
I stop breathing.
His eyes are glued to mine, holding me hostage until I break it with a scoff.
“What for?” Determined to look anywhere else, the drapes, the carpet, ceiling fan, which he also dusted, his black dress socks, my bare feet nearly toe to toe with them.
I don’t expect him to answer as he releases the plate.
But of course, Gideon rarely does what I think he’ll do. Case in point: him standing in my house cooking me dinner.
“So much. I’m sorry you were alone. I’m sorry I didn’t call, that I ever left. Every day I regretted it, wished I’d have done it differently, better somehow.” His voice is raw, strained. He means it, maybe more than even I realize.
Flush creeps down my neck, a sudden, annoying burn in the back of my eyes.
He’s sorry.
“Thank you… for making dinner.”
“Of course, puppet.”
My legs press together under the hot plate at the bizarre endearment as he heads back to the kitchen, leaving me there to sink into the couch.