Page 380 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
“What are you doing here?” I turn, finding him too close to me.
Flat palms to his chest, I guide him back.
“I’ve been texting, but getting no answers. I think I’ve been blocked.”
“You have. It’s best for both of us if we move on.”
“Because you’re fucking someone else.”
“Shane, we don’t need to fight. I really don’t feel well enough for this today.” It’s almost like my stomach knows it’s having curry tonight, and is already acting up because of it.
“You look okay to me,” he says, gripping my face harshly.
I push him away, my touch much gentler than his.
“My body aches. I’d like a little space.”
“Is that because you were fucked all over the bedroom last night or just part of your stomach thing?”
“My stomach thing? You mean my chronic illness?”
“Oh, Lancie, it’s not that bad.”
I roll my eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, I’m only kidding. You can never take a fucking joke, can you?”
“No. I can’t.”
Ignoring me, his gaze slips back to the cake.
“Don’t you dare. I worked on this all afternoon.” I slide it away from him on the table.
“Did you get a new customer?”
“No.”
“So, you spent all morning making a cake just to make one, and you won’t share it with me?”
“We’re done, Shane. That means we’re done sharing things, too. Please, just leave. You can wait in the reading room if you want me to call you an Uber.”
“It’s for someone. Who?”
My frilly pale pink apron serves as a makeshift dish towel, which I use to wipe off the frosting from my hands. Regret comes instantly because I know it’ll be a tough fight to get the bright color out, and I remember my parents buying this for me on their last Christmas.
I take a breath I don’t deserve, and clutch the edges of the cake box, ready to escort it to safety when big hands cover mine, and that’s when I realize I never answered Shane.
“It’s for Ambrose.”
“Ambrose, who you’re fucking? Ambrose, who killed your fucking parents? You stupid, easy slut.”
Shane’s voice remains calm, too calm as his body stiffens, his whole demeanor altering. Calloused fingers tighten on my hands, and my bones grind against one another. A spread of red-hot anger stains his pale face, which stands out against his fake Dior sweater.
I can feel it starting, a feeling strong enough to outweigh the guilt over my parents that just crept back. It begins with a pounding in my chest. A thin layer of sweat that sticks my hoodie to my back. My trembling knees threaten that I won’t get this cake across the kitchen.
Panic sets in, latching onto my movements and thoughts. Memories flood me, and phantom pains attack my skull. For a second, I’m back in the foyer. The feel of his hands closing in around my throat, and that dries my mouth. The next moment, a pillow covers my face as blasts hit me from beyond it.
The fear I felt, were Mom and Dad’s last moments like that? Was it terrifying for them to have their lives taken by a person they loved and trusted?
