Page 42 of Taming Tesla

“That’s what I thought.” Her hand snaps out and yanks the painting off the wall. I watch her, rooted in place as she stalks into the kitchen, rifling through the cabinet under the sink. The drawer next to the dishwasher. Painting in tow, she disappears down the hall. I follow her, just in time to see her disappear into the bathroom.

When I get there, she’s tossed the painting into the tub. “What are you doing?” I sound dumb. Like I’m too slow and stupid to put the puzzle of her together.

“What does it look like?” she said, the bottle of starter fuel I use to start the BBQ when we grill, in her hand. She flips open the nozzle, squirting a long, thin stream onto the painting.

And then she sets it on fire.

The flames shoot up, the muffled whomp! of it blowing at her hair, pushing her back. Fire licks at the ceiling. The shower curtain blackened almost instantly. Lifting her hand, she steps closer to the tub. Too close. The shower curtain is engulfed in flames, smoldering plastic dripping onto the bathmat. She throws the check into the flames.

I lunge at her, dragging her out of the bathroom as it fills with thick, black smoke. Above us, the smoke detector starts to screech. Darting into the bathroom, I stick my hand into the flames, hair and skin instantly singed while I feel around for the faucet. Finding it, I crank it open, dousing the fire, putting it out almost instantly. Jerk the shower curtain down and toss it into the tub. The bathmat too.

Spinning around, I stride into the hallway. Reaching up, I curl my fingers around the lip of the smoke alarm, ripping it off the ceiling. I fast pitch it into the bathroom where it explodes against the tile before falling into the tub full of water and smoldering debris.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I bellow at her, hands gripped around her shoulders, shaking her. I’m being loud. Rough. I shouldn’t do that. Treat her like this, but she’s scaring me. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I hate her,” she screams in my face.

It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about herself.

“I love her.” I counter, my hands softening around her shoulders. “I love the girl who put James in the hospital. I love the girl who shoves onion rings in her face because she knows it pisses off my cousin’s bitch of a fiancé. I love the girl who makes me watch shitty reality shows and the girl who paints me when I’m not looking.”

I drop my hands completely and take a step back. “I love the half-naked girl who knocked on my bedroom door and asked me to take her home three years ago, and I love the woman standing in front me now. I love you, Cari. I’ve always loved you...” I take a deep breath. Surrender. “And I know you love me back.”

She jerks away from me like I slapped her in the face, eyes wide. Mouth hanging open. She’s about to deny it. She’s about to tell me I’m wrong. That it was just about the sex. That none of it mattered. That I don’t matter.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I know you’re scared—I’m scared too.” I step back again, pressing my shoulders against the wall. “I’m scared that you’re never going to figure it out. That you’re never going to accept the fact that this is real. We’re real.”

“There is no we, Patrick.” She flings her arm down the hall. “I’m leaving remember. This is over.”

“You’ll be back.” It hurts. Hearing her say it again, but this time I can accept it because I understand. This isn’t about how she feels about me. It’s about how she feels about herself. “I’m not going anywhere. You can run to hell and gone—I’m still going to be here, and I’m still going to love you. You do whatever you need to do to figure out what I already know. I’ll wait.”

“And what do you know?” I can tell by her tone she’s trying for sarcastic. Instead, she sounds scared. “What am I supposed to figure out, exactly?”

“That you’re enough.” I sigh, suddenly tired. Worn down. “That I love you.”

Her mouth snaps shut, and she wilts against the wall behind her, sliding down until her ass hits the floor. I step away long enough to turn off the shower. When I step back into the hall, I find her the same way I left her. Curled into herself, knees drawn to her chest.

I promised I’d leave her alone. Keep my hands to myself. Behave.

I know what I promised. What I said.

I don’t care about doing the right thing. Keeping my promises.

Doing what’s good. What’s expected.

All I care about is her.

I pick her up and carry her down the hall to her bed.

Our bed.

I lay her down and stretch out beside her.

I hold her.

And she lets me.

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