Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
My mouth quirked into a half-moon grin. Things were not so dire if she managed to crack an anal joke.
“You’ll take it everywhere, Apricity. All in good time. Now, open the door.”
“I’m not done sulking.”
“Nobody else is coming to save you,” I rasped. “It’s me or nothing.”
“I’ll take nothing then.”
Practice empathy, Dr. Patel chided in my head. Work on it like it’s a muscle you need to develop.
“Get the fuck out.”
Oops.
“Since you asked so nicely…” She trailed off, voice sweet as a peach. “No.”
“Out, Gia.”
“No.”
It was time to bring out the big guns. Probably should’ve started with that. I was terrible at this. But I had zero fucking experience.
“I brought macarons from Paris,” I said.
“I’m allergic to almonds.”
“Arancini from Sicily.”
“Don’t eat fried food on weekdays.”
“Fluffy Yorkshire pudding. Still warm.” My fist pressed into the wall so hard it started chipping. “I know it’s your favorite.”
A pause. A hesitation. A tick of the clock.
“With gravy and creamy garlic potatoes?” she sniffled. “And…and…Sunday roast?”
“Yeah. Row made it himself. Just how you like it.”
“He makes mashed peas.”
What was I to say to this? Go marry Row Casablancas then. See if I give a damn.
But I did. And it infuriated me.
Finally, she said, “Give me a few more hours.”
No, I wanted to howl. Already, you’re not delivering your side of the bargain.
But I had no chips to bargain with. It was the first time since Andrin where I was at a disadvantage against another human.
I did not like it.
I turned back and left.
Stepping out of my room, I rubbed the sleep and tears from my eyes.
I‘d spent the past few days steering clear and well away from my husband. Not because I looked like hell. It wasn’t even entirely because of Mum.
What kept me hidden was the realization I was falling for my monster.
Craving its claws. Missing its pointy, venomous teeth. Wanting to capture its stony, unmoving heart.
Clearly, I’d fallen down the Stockholm syndrome rabbit hole. Yay me.
He was callous, forbidding, not to mention a literal murderer, but he was oddly loyal to those he’d chosen to entwine his destiny with, and I found myself at the top of that list.
Before making it one step, my eyes landed on the elaborate gift Tate had brought me. Cellophane-wrapped treats from all over the world—the UK, Cuba, Jamaica, Italy, France, and South Korea—individually wrapped and waiting to be consumed. There were baskets of fruits and chocolates. And something else. Something that made me pause.
No. No way. Where did he…?
My old photo albums.
The ones Mum kept in the attic back home.
Dozens of them, for me to leaf through.
Pictures of Dad and Elliott and Mum and me. Of our pets throughout the years. Trips. Birthdays. Christmases. I rushed to one of the albums and sank to my knees. Flipped through the pages hungrily, cupping my mouth, tears of joy and laughter and sadness drifting from me. Bliss poured from the pages. Nostalgia flooded me.
Smiling faces.
Goofy expressions.
Notes Mum scribbled on blank address labels and glued under every picture, lest we forget.
Disneyland 2014. Elliott was too scared to ride anything but the teacups! Claimed he had food poisoning but then ate seven waffles when we got to the hotel.
Christmas 2017. Gia accidentally set her dress on fire trying to light a scented candle. Insisted on wearing it and said the asymmetrical edges were a part of the design.
Boxing Day 2012. Dad lost a footie bet. Man U won. He had to get the result tattooed to his arm.
A rush of memories slammed into me all at once.
The way Elliott squinted in all the photos to hide what he was certain was a lazy eye.
Dad always deliberately ruined family pictures with silly faces just to make Mum exasperated so they could make up in the grossest, most adorable way.
The way Mum always tsked and shook her head whenever Nicole Kidman popped up on the telly and said, “This woman called her daughter Sunday Rose, which is too bloody close to Sunday roast.”
An unfeminine snort escaped me, and I shook my head.
Pressing the albums to my chest, I tucked them in my room, where they’d be safe.
My heart stammered as I made my way toward Tate’s bedroom. I stopped at the threshold.
Perched on the edge of his bed, he was solving equations in a textbook, thick brows crumpled in deep in concentration. He oozed gentle violence. This elegant, complex, Victorian creature.
His free hand tapped against the side of his leg.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
I frowned, checking my Apple Watch.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
His tapping was in a three-second increment exactly, just as I’d calculated in Dr. Stultz’s office.
The penny dropped.
All this time, his body whispered his secret to me when Tate wasn’t looking.
My husband has OCD.
He needed rituals, routines, and numbers. Soothing quotes from books he’d read and loved.