Page 142 of Worthy

She disappears into the bedroom before running back into the living room, only to walk through to the kitchen.

Cupboards open and slam shut as though the phone is hidden inside the cutlery drawer. Then she’s back, staring at me with those doe eyes of hers.

She goes to open her mouth but freezes when her gaze lands on something across the room.

Moving past me, she rips the phone from its cradle on the wall. It has a curling cable and a rotary dial. Pressing it to her ear, she tries to phone out before slamming the phone back down. As if she can’t help herself, she slams it again. “There’s no signal.”

I could have told her that. Does she think she can dial out during a blizzard?

I watch her pace.

“What are we going to do?”

“Wait it out.”

“But our paren—”

“There’s nothing else we can do,” I interrupt her. “We can’t leave this cottage, or we’ll freeze to death. We don’t know if the maniac is alive out there and looking for us. We need to stay put. Let’s warm up and have a bite to eat.”

She plops down on the coffee table, shoulders slumped with defeat. Gripping the edge and staring at the fire, she blurts, “We almost got killed tonight.”

“But we didn’t.”

“Thanks to you.”

I lay down on the floor and stare up at the dark, wooden beams across the white-painted ceiling. “I wasn’t going down without a fight.”

“You didn’t even seem scared.”

“I don’t think I was. Not really.” Rolling my head, I look at her. “I was angry.”

“I wasn’t,” she admits. “I was scared.”

“I know.”

Grinding her teeth, she brings her attention to the worn carpet. Her long legs are devoid of goosebumps now that she’s warmed up. “You lost your phone, but I’m still somehow wearing my heels. I thought it was a secret rule to lose a heel during a kidnapping.”

“I don’t know how you wear those deadly things.”

Rolling her slim ankle, she shows me her black high heels. “Want to try them on? I think we’re about the same size.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. “Absolutely fucking not.”

She kicks them off, then flexes her toes. “I should leave a good review online. ‘Wore them during a kidnapping, and my feet didn’t get sore.’”

I study her for a moment, trying to remember why I disliked her so much before tonight. It’s hard to see the girl she pretends to be back home. This version of her that sits across from me is vulnerable, eager to be accepted, but not without fire.

As if she can read my thoughts, she asks, “Why do you hate me so much?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Yes, you do,” she insists, and I relent.

“I don’thateyou. It’s complicated.”

She stands up, walks over to me, and drops to her knees. It’s a strange situation to find myself in—on my back with her kneeling over me.

Reaching out, she brushes her fingers over my forehead, then down the bridge of my nose, stopping just shy of the tip. “Why is it complicated?”

---