Page 33 of Deeply Examined

What’s wrong with me?

I raise a shaky hand to my forehead and rub it. I’d brought her here without thinking it through. There’d been nothing but a need to save her last night, to get her out of danger as fast as I could. Now my breath catches as the realization crashes into me. This is more than lust. More than a desire to protect. It’s something deeper, more dangerous.Forbidden. Something I can’t afford to feel.

She’s fucking with my head. Her beauty, her vulnerability…it’s unraveling me.

I shoot to my feet so fast my coffee sloshes over the countertop. I don’t bother wiping it up. “I’ve got surgery all morning and clinic after that. I won’t be home until late,” I say, my voice clipped. “Make yourself comfortable. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge.”

Jessica blinks, startled by my abruptness. “Oh. Okay.” She looks up at me, her golden lashes catch the light and reflect it back. “I…um…have a nice day?”

“You too.”

I don’t dare meet her eyes as I grab my jacket and stride to the door. Once outside, I pause in the hallway, leaning against the wall as I drag in an unsteady breath.

Years ago, one of my many therapists told me I have a problem identifying my emotions. I’ve worked on it since, but, still, I probably have the emotional maturity of a toddler.

I close my eyes and force myself to follow the steps the therapist taught me. Breathe. Name the emotion.

What am I feeling?

The answer is stark and simple.

I’m scared.

Chapter nine

Adam

For weeks I avoid her, leaving early in the morning for work and staying extra hours at the gym in the evening. I’m already lean, but with this workout schedule I’m burning so many calories I might just disappear. When I come home at night, Jessica’s door is closed and her lights are off. She’s probably dreaming about the time she was crowned prom queen. How she smiled and waved. I watched it from the crowd, a random face she doesn’t remember.

My dreams are all nightmares, which is why instead of sleeping I prowl around my condo like a detective trying to solve a case. There’s evidence of Jessica everywhere. It’s not that she’s messy. She does her dishes and puts away her trash. It’s more like she’s distracted and leaves a trail of items behind her.

I find lipstick on the kitchen counter, pink like cotton candy.

Why was she putting on make-up? To impress some guy?

An aluminum tin of spicy-smelling mints on the end table. I sniff them, then sneeze so hard my eyes water.

Why does she care about her breath? Is she kissing someone?

Butterfly earrings in the bathroom, with a matching necklace. I hold them up to the light and inspect them, observing how the tiny rhinestones glimmer.

Are they special to her? A gift from a boyfriend, perhaps?

These questions drive me crazy, so much that I turn to the security cameras that cover every inch of the condo. They’re discrete, hidden in bookshelves or high in the corners of the room.

Jessica doesn’t know about them.

She also doesn’t know what’s in the locked room next to my bedroom. I told her it was my audiovisual equipment, but that was a lie. The room contains a row of TV monitors to observe all those security cameras. It also has some other…pieces of equipment in it. Things I doubt Jessica is ready to experience.

Late at night I go into that room and lock the door behind me. Like a peeping Tom, I review footage from her day. I expect she’ll be gone most of the time, probably out on dates with men I’d like to throttle. It turns out that she’s a bit of a homebody. She goes to work in the morning and is home by 4:30 p.m. every day. Then she spends her time grading papers, reading books from my library, or texting on her phone while sipping a single glass of white wine.

Whoever she’s messaging must be hilarious because one time Jessica giggled so hard that she spilled her wine on the couch cushions. She immediately jumped up, cursing, and, after a furtive look around the empty condo, wiped the droplets off with the hem of her shirt, revealing the smooth curve of her waist. I’d replayed that tape several times, mesmerized by that strip of bare skin.

Eventually, I can’t take it anymore. I have to know who is on the other end of that phone, so I wait until 4:00 a.m. and creep into her bedroom. She’s asleep, her lips pursed and hair tangled. One arm hangs off the side of the bed, her wrist bent at an awkward angle.

Her phone is on the nightstand, plugged in and charging. It emits a faint ding when I disconnect it. I freeze, my heartbeat loud in my ears, and watch to see if the noise will wake her. She doesn’t stir. I slink to the top of the spiral stairs and shut her door enough to block the light from the phone as I fire it up. I’ve zoomed the security footage in close enough that I know her security code. I’ve watched her punch it in countless times.

131313.

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