Page 76 of You Make Me Feel
It should feel like relief. Of course she doesn’t need me. I gave her what she wanted. The fear of the hunt, the pleasure of the capture, the aftercare.
My job is over.
So why doesn’t it feel finished? I grip the wheel a little tighter, jaw locked, eyes fixed forward becauselooking at her again will crack something I’m actively trying to hold together inside of me.
She’s not mine. I made that clear. I made it clear for her own good. I left her alone in my fucking apartment for god’s sake. There’s no clearer message than that.
So why is she laughing while I feel like I can’t breathe?
I spend the rest of the day doing everything I can not to think of her. I run – on the treadmill, because the beach is way too full of her – and then I have a conference call with Larry to go through where he’s at with the investigation.
I even help Autumn when she calls to talk through Sadie’s plan for where each piece of art will go on the Art Trail, which does fucking nothing to help me from forgetting her, but at least I’m distracted by my sister’s constant chatter and need for me to tell her she’s doing good. Which I do.
By night time I’ve run out of distractions. I stare at my bed, hating how empty it looks without a riot of flaming hair and a soft, warm body. I look at the shower and remember how good it felt to clean her all over. And then I grab my keys and phone, knowing I have to get out of here.
So I drive to the only place I feel like I can breathe.
When I pull into an empty space on Main Street, I shake my head at how unhinged this is. The whole town is asleep, or getting there. The ferry is docked for the night, even the Salty Dog is winding down, a few late night drinkers spilling out to make their way home.
And then there’s me, staring up at a window like a lovesick teenager. I don’t even know what I want from this.
Her curtains are closed, but I can see a soft light shining through the gaps in the fabric, something flickering, like she’s watching the television.
I sit there for an hour until the light goes off, and theone in the next room flicks on. The bedroom, I guess. The curtains aren’t closed yet in that room, and when she moves into view it knocks the air out of my lungs like a fist.
Red hair down. A tank barely covering her shoulders. She leans forward, presses her face to the glass, like she’s looking for something.
But she doesn’t see me.
Good. Because if she did, I don’t know who’d break first. All I know is that I shouldn’t be here. I can’t be here.
Yet I can’t stay away.
She steps back, disappears, the curtains finally dragged shut. The knot in my chest stays tight.
I sit another minute, letting the shame mix with desire. Then I drive back to the hotel in silence.
twenty-one
ZACH
After another night of fitful sleep, I wake up early, hit the gym, then shower. By eight, I’m fully dressed, I’ve read all my emails and I’m still feeling wired. So I head to my car and drive over to Hudson’s place, deciding to take him up on his open invitation for Saturday breakfast, because being surrounded by my family feels like a better option than being alone.
But as I walk into the Captain’s House, which is already a hotbed of activity thanks to a whole load of kids, an overexcited dog, and the fact that the rest of my family also decided that today’s the day to descend upon Hudson’s kitchen, I start to wonder if this was such a good idea.
The whole house smells of maple syrup, coffee and dogs. A highchair screeches across the floorboard. Someone’sPaw Patrolepisode is losing a negotiation war with a playlist of eighties rock.
And over it all, Hudson is calmly flippingpancakes at the stove as if he’s a domestic goddess, complete with an apron over his clothes that says ‘Real Men Don’t Use Recipes’.
His lips curl up when he sees me, and he points at the coffee pot that’s warming on the hot plate. “Hey stranger,” he says. “It’s good to see you.”
I shrug. “Heard you were cooking. Wanted to see the carnage for myself.”
“This isn’t carnage,” he tells me, letting out a sigh. “You should have been here last night. That was carnage.”
Before the last word comes out of his mouth, a blur of fur rushes into the kitchen, followed by four kids, all screaming. Parker is close behind them, holding baby Elijah as he attempts to feed him while yelling at them.
“Barney isn’t a damn rodeo pony,” Parker finishes, hauling the smallest offender off the dog, who looks thrilled by his new career in extreme sports.
