Page 31 of Entangled By You
She’s mine.
Any man who looks at her twice walks a fine line between foolish and suicidal. There won’t be anyone else. Not for her. Not for our child growing inside her. I’ll see to it.
The mess of glass glitters under the low kitchen light, but I ignore it for now. I root through the pantry until I find the bed tray I spotted weeks ago, buried in a pile of unused kitchen gear. Most of it’s coated in dust. The stuff Lexi’s never bothered with, probably never will.
Carefully, I tug the tray free without knocking anything else over. Victorious, I set it on the counter and turn to the meal waiting on the stove. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and greens. Comfort food that might put something steady back in her.
I warm the plate in the oven and tuck a chilled bottle of ginger beer into the built-in cup holder on the tray. Hopefully, this one won’t end up shattered like the last.
Now I can focus on the floor. A sweep will have to do for now; I don’t want to risk missing her as she moves to her room. If she shuts me out again, I’m not sure I’ll be able tokeep from going after her this time, not with her emotions running so high.
I grab the broom from the closet. The bristles are frayed and bent, but it'll do the job. The glass is scattered everywhere. I crouch down and start picking up the bigger pieces first. Ginger beer still clings in sticky rivulets down the wall, another thing to clean later.
Each scrape of glass into the dustpan feels loud against the steady quiet. I’m hyper-aware of the short distance between us. She’s naked behind a closed door, and I’m here, cleaning up the physical representation of her day.
It takes long enough, but when I glance around the floor, nothing reflects back, and I call it. The pipes groan from the tub draining. Somewhere down the hall, a door clicks open, then closed. I give her a minute. Maybe two. Then I grab the tray and head toward her room.
Her door is slightly ajar. Soft voices drift from the TV—something about the importance of coffee and existential dread. I ease inside.
She’s curled under the blankets, her damp hair twisted into a messy knot on top of her head. The wide bed engulfs her tiny frame, and I can’t help but notice how perfectly I could fill the extra space beside her.
“Hey,” she says, her voice quiet but not cold.
“You feeling any better?”
“A little,” she murmurs, hugging the blankets tighter. “But I could really use a drink to take the edge off.”
“The best I can do is a ginger beer and some home-cooked food.”
“I guess that’ll do,” she says with a faint smile, pushing herself upright to take the tray. Her movements are slow, likethe weight of the day has drained every ounce of energy from her limbs.
“Where’s your plate?” she asks, looking down at the single serving.
“I’ll make one later. You eat.”
I turn toward the door—the one that leads to another night alone in the guest bed across the hall—but her voice stops me cold.
“You could make one now… and come eat with me.”
It’s not a command. Not even a request. It’s hesitant, and I fucking hate that.
Lexi, when she was angry, when she hated me, that version of her was stronger than this quiet shell I’ve been trying to coax back to life for months. Her voice now is barely more than a whisper, and I know—without looking—that her cheeks are probably pink with uncertainty.
“You sure? I don’t want to crowd you.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”
That’s better.
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’ll be right back, then.”
FRENCH FRIES AND WHITE LIES
LEXI
It feelsweird being out and about in the middle of the day, especially when I should be working. The sun is high, casting long shadows across downtown’s sleepy sidewalks right outside the window. The place I’d be if this were any normal Wednesday sits at the end of the row, mocking me.
I hope Bethany May is having a hard time finding my replacement. It might be petty, but after what she did, she deserves it.
