Page 23 of The Chaos She Brings
I nod, swallowing another bite. “It’s delicious, Tess. Eat.” I gesture toward her plate, which she seems to have forgottenin her anticipation.
She beams at the praise, diving into her own meal with gusto. I watch her for a moment longer before focusing back on my food, wondering—yet again—why the hell I can’t seem to stop myself from wanting more of her.
“How are you feeling now?” I ask, slightly hesitant for the answer and already cursing myself for initiating a conversation with the world’s biggest chatterbox.
“I’m okay,” she replies, then frowns. “Well, I’m not fine. Everything’s… fucked. I don’t really know what the fuck I’m supposed to be feeling.”
I nod, understanding. “You feel like your life’s spiralling out of control.”I know how that feels.
She points her fork at me, swallowing her mouthful before speaking. “Exactly. Except I’m not sure I had much control to begin with. My life’s kind of… a mess, I guess.”
Before I can ask her to explain (which I wasn’t planning on doing), she starts rambling.
“I think I’ve just been coasting through life, you know? I work a shitty job that has nothing to do with my interests because it’s easier than being a responsible adult. I live in a tiny flat with mould on the walls, and I don’t really have any hobbies. I’m almost thirty—and what do I have to show for it?”
Did I suddenly earn a doctorate in psychotherapy? Is there a flashing sign over my head that reads:This guy loves chit-chatting?
Tess takes a breath. “Do you think I’m reacting wrong to all this murder business?”
Didn’t realise I was signing up for a TED Talk when I asked if she was okay.
I shrug, already wanting to get back to my computers. “You’ve been pretty calm, but I don’t think there’s awrongway to deal with it.”
“I just don’t really feel guilty about it. The more I think about my relationship with Jake, the more I wonder why I was even dating him. I think I was just bored. He was attractive… ish.” Jealousy burns in my chest, unwelcome and completely irrational. But it wasn’t serious. It’s not like I was planning to marry the guy. And the sex was”—please don’t say good, please don’t saygood—“mediocre at best.Thank fuck.
No. Why am I thankful? I’mnotinterested.
“I should feel guilty though, right? I killed a man.”
“He was planning to kill you,” I offer.
Her eyes blaze angrily. “He was!”
“So maybe that’s why you don’t feel guilt. But that doesn’t mean you don’t feelanything.”
I rub my temples, wondering when my quiet dinners alone will return. Why am I engaging in this conversation? Oh yeah. Because for some reason I like the sound of her voice.
“I feel… panicked. I’m nervous that I’ll be caught. And I’m scared because someone broke into my flat and I don’t understand why and what if they found evidence that they can use against me?”
I clench my jaw, forcing a neutral expression instead of the exasperation coursing through me. “Don’t worry about the break-in. I’m handling it.”
She narrows her eyes. “Handling how?”
I wave a hand, pushing away from the table. “Let me worry about it.”
After dinner, we tackle the disaster zone together. I wash; she dries. It’s oddly seamless, as if we’ve done this a hundred times before. There’s a strange kind of ease in the moment, the silence punctuated by the clinking of dishes and her occasional hum of the song still playing softly in the background. It feels very… domestic.
Too domestic.
“Tess,” I say, my voice sharper than intended. She pauses mid-reach for a dish, glancing at me.
“Yeah?”
I dry my hands on a towel, avoiding her gaze as I lean against the counter. “About earlier. When I kissed you…”
Her expression changes at my words, or my tone, and the light dimming from her eyes makes me want to take them back. “What about it?”
“It was a mistake.” The words are heavy on my tongue, but I push through. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
