Page 43 of Tears of Ink

I wake in sweat, my legs and arms thrashing against unwanted touches, and blankets. It takes a moment for me to remember where I am. To remember that I’ve run once again; this time, to a room with dusky pink walls.

It takes another moment for my pulse to calm enough so I can sit up, and I push my hair out of my face. It’s dark outside, so it must be past ten. I didn’t mean to drop off to sleep when I came back into the pink room. I worked for ages with the clay, twisting and turning it, allowing it to morph into an expression of my feelings—my frustration.

I slip my feet into my trainers and pull a baggy sweatshirt over my camisole. The jumper is so big, it covers my shorts as well. I’m hungry. I didn’t go to dinner as I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Connie Fairclough and her sharp tongue again.

I open my door and head down the hallway. I’m sure people are still up; not everyone is asleep by eleven o’clock being tormented by their demon nightmares.

I don’t see anyone, and I technically don’t know where the kitchen is. Irrelevant of my lack of direction, I creep along the silent hallways. This would be the perfect moment to explore; no one else would be around watching my reactions. I stay on track, though. If I’m going to keep skipping dinner due to rude family members, I’d better find out where I can scrounge food.

I follow all the places where I’ve seen Jennings hovering. He always knows when food is served; I’m guessing he knows where it comes from.

Eventually, when I’ve headed towards the yet unexplored back of the house, I find a dark wooden door with Kitchen written on an enamel nameplate.

Well, that only took about twenty minutes. Just as well I’m not malnourished and on my last legs. I push through, already decided on just getting a quick snack and then going straight on a mission back to my bed.

I stop with a jump when I see someone sitting at a massive wooden kitchen table. At first, I think it’s Jennings—maybe he’s not allowed to go to bed? But then the delphinium blues lift and rove over my face, my sweatshirt, my legs.

I hesitate in the doorway. I can’t help but wonder what’s going on. This morning he was here, then he was gone—just in time for me to get insulted by his gran—and now he’s back… my gaze drops to the table… back and drunk.

In his hand is a tumbler full of amber liquid, and in front of him—the only thing on the table—is a bottle of whisky with a label I can’t pronounce.

I hover, suspended, while his eyes sweep over the tattoos on my thighs. When they rise to my face, I can’t decipher the emotion locked within their depths. “Hi,” I say.

“Hi.”

“Hard day?” I motion at the bottle.

“You could say that.” He pauses for a moment, drifting deep into thought. “Want one?”

I shrug and step up to the table and pull out a chair, telling myself he doesn’t look all kinds of levels of serious hot. He does. God, he does.

White shirt rolled at the sleeves and pushed up to the elbow, he’s wearing a navy waistcoat. God can this man rock a suit. “You look nice,” I say, without thinking.

He turns to face me while his eyes wander thoughtfully over my face. Without a word, he gets up from his chair and opens a cupboard, pulling a short glass from within its depths. He doesn’t bother with ice, just splashes some of the honey coloured liquid into the glass.

“I’m rather drunk,” he announces as I take a tentative sip.

“Any reason why?” I tuck my legs up and pull my sweatshirt down over my knees, balancing the glass on top.

“Family issues.”

I let out a dry chuckle. “Now I’ve met your family that doesn’t surprise me at all.”

A slow smile lifts one side of his cheek, and that gorgeous dimple flashes. “I can’t believe she said that to you.”

“She’s a character.”

He concentrates on the shape of my knees under the material of my jumper. “I can’t believe you said that back. Surely you’d pick me instead of Peter?”

I take a moment to check he’s only joking. The slow smile and dimple allow me to let out the breath I’m holding. “It was a hard choice, but on the wire, I couldn’t decide.”

He chuckles and takes a deep sip of his drink.

“So why are you solo drinking in the kitchen?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t have anyone else to drink with.”

“Don’t you have friends you could have gone out with in London? Or, you could have come and asked me.” He seems kind of sad and lonely sitting in the kitchen by himself. I would have sat with him.