Page 102 of Things I Read About
I close the door and suck in a jagged breath but keep moving. The shower is the safest place. I get in, with my clothes on. I crank the water, sit in the stream, and I cry.
Kid.
Not a heroine.
Not his girl or even his meaningless one-night stand.
Just silly, sad, little Sally.
Little Sally who is never letting him hurt me, or hold me or even touch me, ever again.
26
Two weeks have passed. A full fourteen days. Three hundred thirty six hours.
Well, we’ll reach that tonight, around midnight.
It’s not that Nate and I haven’t spoken in that time, we’ve discussed the chickens, because Bilbo Baggins looked sickly one day. We’ve talked about the logistics of our plans today and our upcoming trip to Tulsa. We’ve said good morning and good night.
No conversation for a week. My headphones were in most of the time, blasting the angriest music I could find. Nate’s ear buds were ever-present as well. I traded tight outfits for comfortable, lightweight ones. Sadie has a nice selection of linen sets from her honeymoon. I switched to my glasses, because the random crying, usually in the bathroom, irritates my contacts.
Six days ago my headphones broke. Nate glared at me from the driver’s seat of the Gator as if I wanted to talk. I just informed him of the tragedy. He offered to play the sci-fi thriller he'd just started on speaker. Since then, we’ve listened to books together during chores.
Against reason, I started to hope that we’d bond over the books. But every time something exciting happened, or strange, I’d look over at him. He’s been blank every time. He doesn’t want to bond.
He’s just the bodyguard.
I’m just his charge.
I’ve read a lot and played a lot and I’m fine. Everything is fine, or it will be. Soon, when the threat is taken care of and Nate is gone, I’ll be totally fine again. I sniff.
Crap. Don’t think about Nate being gone.
I adjust my giant prescription sunglasses and look out the window of the sportscar Nate must like the best out of all my brother-in-law’s cars. Today, after hours of searching online and texting back and forth with my family, I’m finding an apartment. I’ve narrowed it down to a few top options and it’s time to see them in person.
Nate will join me, of course.
I should be excited. When I think about never hauling grain across a goat paddock ever again, I am, a little bit. I just wish Nate wasn’t coming along today. His presence muddles everything up in my mind.
The apartment or house I choose is the start of my new adult life. My dream, really. He will be long gone, so I should absolutely not be wondering if the kitchen and the bedroom shown in the photos are big enough for him and his mountain of a body to not feel claustrophobic.
I sigh. Soon. I’ll be able to move on soon.
“You aren’t excited to find a place?” Nate asks in response to my heavy exhale.
“I am, but”—I turn in my seat—“what’s going on with the stalker?”
Nate shifts his weight, too. “We are making progress.”
“What does that mean?”
“I can’t tell you specifics, Sally.”
I sigh again. “So, still no idea when all of this will be over?”
He chuckles. “Am I finally cramping your style?”
Poet Charles Lamb, 1819.
