next week.
The sound of the shower hitting the walls sends a flutter to my stomach. I have ten minutes, maybe. What will he say to me when he comes out and I’m not in bed, waiting? I’ve never, you know, not done what he says. In the bedroom, anyway. I mean, I know he won’t force me. Even after what I saw today, I know he’d never do that, but when he comes back, he’s going to think it’s business as usual.
Maybe I should just get in the bed and let him do whatever and hope it’s quick.
I cringe. Moths flutter up my neck.
The first guy he shot begged. I could see that from where I stood. I adjust the neckline of my sky-blue cashmere sweater so it rests a few inches higher and resume my letter to Letitia.
The water stops. My stomach lurches, and I eye the bed, the bathroom door. I still have enough time. I don’t know how he’s going to react when he comes back out, and I clench my hands into fists.
I can say no if I want to. There’s no law against that.
The bathroom door swings open, and I stiffen. I press my pen to the paper and concentrate like it’s the night before an essay deadline and I need an A or I’ll fail the class.
The floorboards creek under his weight. I feel him behind me, breathing, watching. He lifts my hair aside and kisses my neck.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I flick him what I hope is a cheerful smile. “Writing to my sister. I keep putting it off. She’s going to be pissed.”
Letitia and I aren’t tight, but he doesn’t know that. She’s five years older than me, and she doesn’t like to do any of the things I like to do. Plus, things have been weird between us since the attack. It’s like she resents me or something. I wonder sometimes if she feels guilty that I got raped and she didn’t. It’s stupid. I would never have wanted her to go through that.
Briefly he massages my shoulders. He bends again and nuzzles my neck.
I lean away and moisten my lips. “Why don’t you go to bed? I’m going to finish this letter.”
He removes his hands, and I hear the floorboard creek.
There’s a stone in my stomach as I wait for his reaction.
“Bianca.” His voice is quiet. Serious. It demands my attention.
I put the pen down and peek up at him. He’s completely naked, but Kent never acts like he’s ashamed of his body. The only thing he ever tries to hide is his face. I’ve noticed that there’s only one lamp in his office, and it’s powered by rechargeable batteries, not flames. He doesn’t like fire. Here in the bedroom, our only light comes from the fireplace, and I’m pretty sure if we could get electric heat, he’d use that instead. Even the lantern on my desk is battery operated. It’s light enough in here to see the tension in his posture, the fingers twitching at his sides. I don’t look any lower.
“Don’t be so weird about it.” I return his frown. “I just want to finish this letter.”
He raises his brows. “Really?”
“Yes!”
Just like that, he draws my chair away from the table and pulls me to my feet.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. God, Kent, sometimes I’m thinking about other things. Or is that not allowed?” The best defense is offense, right?
He folds his hands over his chest. “Of course it’s allowed. Why are you acting this way?”
“What way?”
“Don’t give me any shit, Bianca. You’ve been acting strangely all evening.”
My heart thuds as I shake my head. “I’m…not …I just don’t feel like it. You know, I’m tired and I just want to finish my letter.”
He gives me an inscrutable look and retrieves the letter from the table.
I drop my jaw. “That’s private!”
“‘Hey Biiiiioch! What’s new with you? Is Dad still trying to hook you up with that old guy in West Virginia?’”
He looks up and waives the paper at me. “Mighty long letter. Intense.”
I square my shoulders. “Like I said, it’s personal. I’ve got a long way to go, so if you don’t mind…” I reach