Chapter 22 #2
“That’s fine,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “I’ll go at eleven.”
“Thanks, love,” Margaret says, like I’m doing her a favour.
An hour later, at eleven, I grab my bag and head outside. The heat slaps me in the face immediately. I see the black Porsche immediately. Ethan is leaning against it, scrolling on his phone,
He looks up as I stare at him from the other side of the street.
He smiles, a slow curve of his mouth that makes my pulse quicken. He pushes off the car and walks towards me, crossing the street without looking.
“Annabelle,” he says, leaning down to grip the back of my neck and kiss me. “You’re early.”
“Margaret asked me to go early.”
He nods and takes my hand, his fingers threading through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Before I can stop myself, I relax into the touch.
Ethan notices and pulls me closer.
He leads me down the street to a small café I’ve passed a hundred times but never entered. The bell above the door chimes as we walk in. The place is quiet, with only a few tables occupied. Ethan guides me to a booth in the back corner, away from the windows.
“Sit,” he says.
I slide into the booth, and he sits across from me. A waitress appears almost immediately, her smile bright and professional.
“What can I get you?” she asks, her eyes lingering on Ethan a fraction too long, her gaze going sultry.
It fires up something in me that I didn’t think was there.
Jealousy. Possession.
I glare at her, and she feels the weight of it, shifting her gaze to me and swallowing. She adjusts her features as I imagine what it would be like to claw her eyes out so she can’t look at Ethan again.
The thought shocks me.
My breath hitches. Ethan’s hand lands on mine over the table, and he squeezes, drawing my attention back to him. “What do you want, Tinks?”
“N-nothing,” I stammer. “Water.”
His eyes narrow at me before he turns to the waitress. “Two ham salad baguettes, crisps, ready salted, and two Coke Zeros.”
The waitress writes it down but says nothing as she hurries away.
“I don’t want all of that,” I complain.
“Tough, you’re eating it.”
He lets go of my hand and pulls out a small packet of antibacterial wipes from the back of his pants. He pulls one out and cleans off the table.
“You’re weird,” I mutter.
“And you, Tinks, are jealous of a woman I wouldn’t look twice at.”
My cheeks go hot. “I am not jealous, you fucking prick.”
“Oh, temper. Looks good on you, Annabelle.”
I glare at him, crossing my arms and sitting back. It feels good too. Felt. I felt like myself again for the first time in four years. Damn him. Damn him to the pits.
He smirks softly, still wiping the table, before discarding the wipe and putting the handy pack back in his pocket. “I like you being jealous.”
“I told you, I’m not jealous.”
“You are. You consider me yours, and you don’t want other women looking at me. It’s perfectly normal.”
“There is nothing normal about any of this.”
“Normal is overrated,” Ethan says, his blue eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my throat tight. “You were dying slowly in that grey existence you called a life. Now you’re sitting here, ready to scratch a woman’s eyes out because she looked at me too long. That’s progress.”
“Progress?” I lean forward, dropping my voice to a hiss. “You call this progress?”
“It is. You should be proud of yourself. We saved you from that empty house where you were wasting away.” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.
The waitress returns with our drinks, setting them down quickly before scurrying away. I grab the Coke Zero and take a long sip, using it as an excuse not to answer him, because he’s right. Some twisted part of me knows they are helping me.
“Tell me about your day so far,” Ethan says, changing the subject like he didn’t just dissect my entire existence.
“It’s the library. Nothing happens there.”
“Humour me.”
I pick at the label on the bottle. “Margaret said I look different today. That I have colour in my cheeks.”
“You do. You look alive.”
“I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
“Maybe you’re just finding it again.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand, his thumb rubbing circles on my palm. The touch grounds me in a way I don’t want to acknowledge. “You spent so long being numb that feeling anything at all seems like madness.”
I want to pull my hand away, but I don’t. The warmth of his skin against mine is an anchor I desperately need, even though I don’t want to need him.
The waitress brings our food. She sets the plates down without making eye contact with either of us this time. Smart woman.
“Eat,” Ethan says, releasing my hand.
I pick up half the baguette. It’s bigger than I expected, stuffed with ham and salad.
“Half,” I say. “I’ll eat half.”
“If you eat half, I’ll be ecstatically happy and call it more progress.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter and take a bite.
It’s too delicious for its own good.
I’m too hungry for my own good. All this proper food being forced on me is making my stomach remember what it’s like to be full, and it’s not protesting anymore.
I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
Ethan watches me eat with satisfaction written all over his face. He eats his own food slowly, methodically, like everything he does. Every movement is controlled, measured. I wonder if he’s always been like this or if it’s something he cultivated to keep the chaos at bay.
“What?” I ask when I catch him staring.
“Nothing. I’m just enjoying watching you take care of yourself.”
“You’re watching me eat a sandwich. It’s not that deep.”
“Everything about you is that deep, Tinks.”
The nickname makes something warm and uncomfortable unfurl in my chest. I shove another bite of baguette in my mouth to avoid responding. The ham is good. The bread is fresh. The salad is crisp. I’m enjoying it, and I can’t remember the last time that happened.
When I finish half, I stare at the rest. The stubborn part of me wants to do as I said I would and only eat half.
The awakened hungry part of me ignores it and reaches for the other half.
Ethan pauses for a fraction of a second before he resumes eating.
“Don’t make a thing out of it.”
“I’m not. Did I say anything?”
“Your actions don’t need you to.”
“What actions?”
“Your pause.”
“You noticed a pause? I’m flattered you are getting to know me so well.”
I respond by shoving the baguette into my mouth. I don’t bother to point out that I can’t know him because he was playing swap the triplet with me for days before I found out.
But the truth is, I can already tell them apart, and it has nothing to do with the preferred colour of their shirts.