You can be happy here.
King’s words have been on repeat in my brain since we left my new studio.
My studio.
I stare at my reflection as I continue to brush my teeth, well past the suggested two minutes.
I kissed him.
My inner voice won’t stop reminding me of the fact that I kissed the man who ruined my life. All because he bought me some art supplies.
But that’s not precisely accurate. He did more than that.
The world needs your art.
When my vision blurs, I tip my head forward and spit my over-frothed toothpaste into the sink.
I’m pretty sure he used this same toothbrush when he got ready for bed. But I don’t even care. I mean, I’ve already kissed him, twice. So, what does it matter?
I’d purposefully kept my gaze lowered when he came out of the bathroom––fairly certain that he only sleeps in his boxers–– not wanting to witness his fantastic body walk across the room on full display. Which is why I’ve spent the last twenty minutes in here, washing my face, switching my shirt for another one of King’s t-shirts, delaying the inevitable.
The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you can put this day behind you.
Squaring my shoulders, I turn off the lights and open the bathroom door.
I make it one step into the bedroom, before I stop. “Seriously?”
King doesn’t move, except to lift his gaze, looking at me over the rim of his glasses.
Fucking. Glasses.
“What?” he sounds truly perplexed, and I want to punch him now, more than ever. Because how dare he.
How. Dare. He.
King is sitting up, back propped against the padded headboard, pillow behind his lower back, legs thankfully hidden under the bedspread, but bare chest on display, as he types away on the laptop resting in his lap. With motherfucking black-rimmed glasses perched on his obnoxious sculpted-from-marble nose.
I refuse to compare myself to him. I know that I look like a frumpy potato in borrowed clothes. And after freedom, my first wish would be for a hair binder, because I am so incredibly sick of having it down and in my face.
“Is there a problem?” His tone has changed and the smugness tells me he knows exactly how hot he looks.
I’ve already considered and discarded the idea of sleeping on the floor. It might give me a few extra feet of distance, but this over-thirty body isn’t built for rough sleeping.
“Yeah, there’s a problem,” I mutter. “Big dumb hairy problem.”
“Which is?”
“Oh, shut up,” I snap at him, as I turn off the light on my side of the bed.
He has the decency to hold his tongue, until I climb onto the mattress and use all the spare pillows to create a barrier between our sides.
“Never took you for a pro-wall type.”
Still refusing to find him funny, I pat the last pillow into place and lay on my side, facing away from him. “With a bed this size, I’m assuming you’ll have no problem staying on your side.”
“Cross my heart.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Is the typing gonna keep you up?”
I shrug because I don’t know.
A few more moments go by before he says, “Goodnight, Savannah.”
And as his fingers tap against his keyboard, I let exhaustion pull me into oblivion.
