Page 72 of Touch of Hate

19

SCARLET

As long as I can remember, I’ve hated waking up in a new place, at least for the first few days. There hasn’t been a sleepover or a family vacation when I haven’t woken up with my heart in my throat. The first week at MIT was a real treat. Not only was I in a new bedroom, but a whole other state.

Should it have mattered? Not necessarily. I guess in my subconscious, I knew how far I was from home and wasn’t a fan of the idea.

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise when my heart wedges itself in my throat the instant my eyes open, and I find myself in a bedroom I haven’t yet gotten used to. What surprises me is the way I remain frozen stiff, unable to breathe, even after my memory catches up to me.

I should be able to relax by now, right? I know where I am and who I’m with. So why is it taking so long before I can move and breathe and think normally?

Sometimes, I ask myself questions I already know the answer to.

I look to his side of the bed and find it empty. I run a hand over the pillow, and it’s cool to the touch, telling me he got up a while ago.

The sun has barely risen, filling the room with thin, gray morning light. He’s an early riser, I guess, even though we didn’t get to sleep until way after midnight, according to the alarm clock on the nightstand.

I don’t know if I’m glad or not that he isn’t with me, considering I don’t know what sort of mood he’ll be in. He was contrite last night, but that was then, in the immediate aftermath.

Now that I know how he reacts when asked questions he doesn’t want to answer, I’m less inclined to ask if he hurt himself while he was in hiding. If he’s been struggling, I doubt he would take it well—and it would probably come off as insulting no matter how I’d try to make it sound otherwise. Nobody wants to hear they’re acting like they have a head wound. Just the thought makes me cringe.

So does the discomfort from my chafed wrists when I pull the sleeves of my shirt over my hands to ward off the chill in here.

That settles it. No questions. If he wants to offer information, I’ll gladly accept it, but I’m not going to be the one to start the conversation.

I can’t believe I have to think this way about him. That I need to plan every move. I used to think strategically like this, but I was more interested back then in finding clever ways to seduce him, to get his attention, and make sure he couldn’t take his eyes off me.

What I wouldn’t give to go back to those days. Even the torment of wanting him and figuring he’d never look twice at me was better than rehearsing what I’ll say to keep him from freaking out.

How do I get us back to where we used to be?

“Good morning.”

Holy shit. I almost jump out of bed at the sudden greeting, even though he delivers it in a soft voice. He’s only wearing socks. There were no heavy footsteps to tip me off.

“Morning,” I pant, laughing shakily, a hand over my heart. “Damn. I need to get you a bell to hang around your neck. It gets so quiet around here.”

“It does, doesn’t it? And a sudden noise sounds so much louder.” He chuckles, leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets while I sit up, shivering a little from the chill.

“I just used the stove and turned the oven on for heat, so it’ll get warmer in no time. I did my best to be quiet, so I wouldn’t wake you.”

“Thank you.” Once I’m on my feet, I stand on tiptoe to give him a soft kiss. The fact that he accepts it gladly leaves the room feeling warmer already.

Not only that, but he cups my face between his palms, stroking my cheeks with his thumbs. How does he do it? Something so simple, yet it lights me up inside and reminds me of why he’s been the only man for me ever since I was old enough to develop my first crush. His familiar blue eyes shine with all the love I’ve missed for so long.

Instinct leaves me wanting nothing more than to melt against him and beg him to come back to bed with me. One thing that hasn’t changed is the way my body responds to his nearness. I have no control over it. If he touches me or looks at me a certain way, I’m lost.

Now that I’m standing so close to him, though, it’s obvious he didn’t get enough sleep. “You look exhausted.” I run my hand over his scruffy cheek, which is paler than I’ve ever seen him, like he’s not getting nearly enough sunlight or exercise and far too little rest.

“I’m fine.” He kisses my palm before wrapping an arm around my waist. “I made you breakfast. Nobody will ever accuse me of being a chef, but I can fix oatmeal like a pro.”

“That sounds perfect.” I allow him to pull me from the room, wrapping my arms around him as we walk the short way to the kitchen table. If it could only be like this always.

If only, if only, if only I knew why he keeps swinging from one mood to the other.

Two bowls wait, both full of steaming oatmeal sprinkled with raisins. “I remembered you like raisins in yours,” he offers.

“I do. You pay attention to everything, don’t you?”