Page 78 of The Ring
I don’t know why I even slept with her. She doesn’t look like Cornelia; she’s ginger, hazel-eyed, and not even close to the same height as Weberly is five-foot-five. She’s the first person I have slept with that doesn’t resemble her, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad one. Maybe it’s healthier.
For a while after Cornelia and I broke up, I thought about seeing a psychologist, but I don’t like the idea of sharing my thoughts with a complete stranger. I don’t like the idea of talking to someone about what happened. Because what if I did… What if they… don’t believe me? What if I saidyes?
Besides, Cornelia’s been going to one every week for years, and she still doesn’t recognise her issues, which—while I don’t find a problem with one of them, I actually find it quite cute most of the time—her second one does worry me. But I also know she’s not trying. She only goes because Anthony makes her.
“—And I’ve spent every night of the last few weeks here, so we’re boyfriend and girlfriend?” she asks. The last words catch my attention. She was saying something else, but I got carried away by my thoughts and didn’t listen to the first part.
I don’t know what to say, so I say, “Yeah, sure.”
That seems to make her happy. She gives me a quick kiss, gets out of bed, and heads towards the bathroom.
Yeah, sure—was that the best thing I could come up with? Ishould have said,No, I don’t believe in relationships unless they’re with Cornelia.I’m pretty sure those were the exact same words that got me into a relationship with Bianca Harrison at Edelweiss—if you can even call what that was a relationship, which Cornelia does. But that time with Bianca, alcohol was highly involved.
Before entering the bathroom, Weberly says, “Boyfriend,” more to herself than to me. “I love that word.”
I think it’s too late to back out now, isn’t it?
Chapter 46
Cornelia
“It’s good, but I think it needs more chocolate chips,” I tell Benedict after tasting the cookie mix, my legs dangling from the top of the white marble kitchen island where I’m seated.
Earlier, I texted Benedict that I was craving cookies, and he came over with the ingredients to make them, which wasn’t what I had in mind. I was thinking more along the lines of asking my chef to make some or going out to buy some, but Benedict insisted we bake them ourselves.
After I told him what happened the last time I baked something, and that I really wanted them to be edible, we settled on me being in charge of the mixing and taste testing, while he handled everything else.
We’re making a variety of cookies—peanut butter, snickerdoodles, oatmeal, the classic chocolate chip cookies we’re working on right now, and the ones I’m most excited about: red velvet.
“Coming right up,” he says, handing me a bag of chocolate chips.
Surprisingly, I’m quite enjoying baking. Normally, my relationship with cooking is a love-hate one, but I think what I’m mostly enjoying is watching Benedict Glounger cook. There’s something undeniably sexy about a man who knows his way around a kitchen, and he looks really good in an apron.
I hear footsteps approaching and turn towards the door. Anthony walks into the kitchen, and I realise it’s probably the smell that drew him here. The entire kitchen smells like butter and sugar. He’s dressed in a suit, but unlike at the office, he isn’t wearing a tie, which makes me think he’s been home for a while and I didn’t notice.
He looks at me, a bit shocked, but with a smile. “What are you doing?” Finding me in the kitchen—cooking, and it smelling good—isn’t a normal occurrence for him. I’ve gone through phases where I tried to cook, but usually ended with part of the house smelling burnt.
“We’re baking cookies,” I reply. “Well, kind of,” I mutter to myself, because I’m thekind ofpart.
“Want some?” Benedict Glounger picks up the plate of finished peanut butter cookies beside me and offers them to him, but keeps his distance as if he were feeding a dog that might jump and bite at any moment.
Anthony takes one but looks at it weirdly, as if the cookie might be poisoned or something. I’m not sure if it’s because he lacks faith in my cooking abilities or because of Benedict.
He’s been spending a lot of time here, and Anthony doesn’t seem to be warming up to him like I’d hoped. Before TJ and I broke up, he and Anthony were really close—too close sometimes. With Benedict, I wasn’t expecting them to become best friends, but while it might not be noticeable to most people, I know my brother, and he’s just tolerating him. It annoys me because Benedict has been nothing but nice to him.
I guess the first impression left a mark. And the fact I’ve beenskipping therapy and not going into the office much because I’ve been sleeping in doesn’t help. But that’s not Benedict’s fault, though Anthony doesn’t see it that way. He won’t say it, but I know how he sees it—when I was with TJ, I never skipped a session. Unlike now. But how could I? TJ almost nagged me about it as much as he does.
Maybe I shouldn’t compare them—for better or for worse, Anthony saw TJ grow, and they bonded over some things.
Anthony takes a small bite of the cookie, and after tasting it, he says, “It’s really good.” He sounds like he doesn’t quite believe it. I feel like I should be offended by his reaction. “Can I have another one?”
Benedict Glounger nods, approaching the plate to him again, and Anthony takes another one.
“You can have the whole plate if you want. We have another batch in the oven,” I offer, thinking that maybe if he eats a full plate of cookies Benedict made, he might warm up to him. It’s a bit of a stretch, but a girl’s allowed to dream.
Benedict brought enough ingredients to start our own cookie shop.
“I’m fine with just one more, thank you,” he says as he heads off. But before he’s out of sight, he turns back to me. “Please don’t burn the kitchen,” he adds with a playful smile.
