Page 44 of The Quiet Tenant

All I can do is nod. His palm is hot against mine, our pulses beating against each other. He uncoils our fingers. Instantly, I miss the contact of his skin. His hand travels up to my face. With three fingers, he brushes away a strand of hair that has escaped from my ponytail.

He raises his eyebrows, as if asking for permission. I nod, and in doing so, bring our faces the slightest bit closer. This is how I will remember it forever: I’m the one who leans in first. I invite him in. For a second I think I’ve got it completely wrong. That he’s going to recoil, drop a twenty on the counter, and leave. Instead, I am rewarded bythe softness of his hand cupping my cheek. A microscopic tremor in his thumb as he grazes the corner of my mouth.

Our lips collide. A new world opens underneath my feet. It’s a Friday night and I’m kissing Aidan Thomas in the deserted restaurant. This feels like karma, like life making up for all the slights along the way—all forgotten, all forgiven, all worth it, now that I know they were leading up to this moment.

He’s still sitting on the barstool. My hands wrap at the back of his neck. His fingers clasp around my waist.

His tongue finds mine. He gives my upper lip the tiniest nibble, sends shivers down my spine, all the way to my ankles. He kisses me like I haven’t been kissed since high school, when everything was new and bodies were meant to be explored, every inch of them a mystery to be solved. There is tongue and lips and teeth. It’s a little bit messy, a little too hungry. It makes me feel wanted. Celebrated. Loved.

He gets up from the barstool, allowing our bodies to press against each other. We break away from our kiss for a few seconds. Long enough to drink in the moment, to take it all in. He rests his forehead against mine. A sigh travels between us. I can’t tell if it’s coming from him or me, just that it’s warm and trembling and full of longing.

His hands slide down, hover above the small of my back. I’m the one who bridges the gap, who pulls him into me. Closer. Deeper. My body tells him what I could never say out loud: how much I want him, how long I’ve waited for this, how I’ve been his this entire time, since before he knew my name or the color of my eyes.

I kiss him, lips swollen, my skin prickling under his facial hair. Our rib cages expand and contract against each other; our hands undo buttons, push fabric out of the way, snake underneath clothes in a desperate search for skin.

I force myself to pull away. Grab his hand. “Over here,” I mumble. I lead him through the kitchen, into the pantry.

He doesn’t ask questions. He follows me. It’s all that matters. It’s all that has ever mattered.

Our bodies crash against the shelves, searching for an anchor point. Clumsily, I guide us to a small patch of bare wall. He helps: using the pressure of his body against mine, he pins me against thesurface. I keep one foot on the floor and hook my other leg around his waist.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “So flexible.”

I laugh. He unties my apron. It’s the hottest thing anyone has done to me, ever. His hand travels underneath my shirt, applies the slightest amount of pressure against my lower abdomen. I moan and forget to be ashamed.

My fingers search and search and still can’t find what they’re looking for. He feels me fumbling and comes to my rescue. Finally, I hear it, a door opening onto a new world—the click of his belt buckle opening, the thud of his jeans falling to the floor.

CHAPTER 29

The woman in the house

It’s late. Too late. There was no dinner tonight, and now he’s MIA. Maybe he has abandoned you again. Maybe he decided it would be good to leave you on your own for a while. Remind you that he’s the one who has kept you alive all these years. That without him, you would die. Starve.

Then, the doorknob turns. Here he is. The man who never forgetsyou.

He uncuffs you. His shoes come off first, then his pants, his sweater, his undershirt. You allow your mind to escape your body. Your brain plays memories of a long-ago train ride, rows and rows of trees flashing against the darkening sky, fading sunlight poking through the branches.

Reality snaps back into place. You are in the room, on the hardwood floor, underneath his body. His left shoulder shifts against your chin, and you see: four red streaks etched into his skin. Half-moons with a scarlet trail. You know these markings. From digging into your own palms, from carving shapes into the pale skin of your legs, the pain temporarily relieving you of something. These are the marks you get when someone digs their nails into the softest parts of you.

It’s the first time you’ve seen these on him. Even after a trip, even afterYou know.He’s always returned scratch-free.

After, when he’s pulling his pants back up, you study him. He’s in no rush to leave. There is an ease about him, a buoyancy. He’s in a good mood.

“So,” you whisper. “It’s later than usual, no?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Why? Got somewhere you need to go?”

You force yourself to chuckle. “No. I was just wondering, you know. Where have you been?”

He tilts his head to the side. “Missed me?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, slips his undershirt back on. “Just running some errands,” he says, and rubs his nose. “If you must know.”

He’s lying—of course he’s lying—but you can read him. There is noYou know.No sparkle in his eyes, no electricity coursing through his body.

Whoever scratched his back, you have to believe she is okay. You have to believe she is still alive.

For a second, you are relieved. Then, your throat closes again. If he has her, does he need you? Or is he just playing with his food?

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