“Just leave your stuff on the floor. I’ll throw them in his washer.”
I respond by slamming the door, only to open it a second later to toss my dirty clothes and underwear out into the hall and shutting it again. Refusing to look at myself in the mirror, I turn on the shower and lean back against the sink while the water warms. I spot a small linen closet behind the door and remove a towel and washcloth. Once under the stream, I wet my body and begin to scrub away the dirt, the fear, the pain. I try to erase everything I’ve been through, but no matter how hard I wipe, the muddy feeling I have remains. I dip my head under the water, not caring that there’s probably no female hair products or a blow dryer here to style my hair. Water bunches on my lashes, mixing in with the tears that won’t stop falling.
I try to make sense of what my life’s become but realize there’s no point. I’m at the mercy of the man I loved, and a man I’ve just met. Left with only the hope that Liam can figure this out, clear me from this situation, and let me go on with my life. I suck in a deep breath, step away from the stream, and clear the liquid from my eyes. There’s a bottle of conditioner sitting on a small ledge built in the wall of the bath. I grab it and pour a dollop into my hands and massage it through my hair. After my hair is coated with the mask, I rinse it all out and shut off the shower. Stepping out onto the floor mat, I pat my feet before reaching for the towel I left on the counter. Instead of wrapping it around my frame, I use it to dry the water from my hair. The mirror is covered in fog, so I use my hand to wipe it away. I shake out my curls then pat myself dry.
My reflection peers back at me, and I don’t like what I see. Red, puffy eyes and a visibly raw nose. My skin is dry, and my lips are chapped from dehydration. I can’t even think of the last time I had water, and the emptiness in my stomach reminds me it’s been just as long since I’ve eaten. There was a time when I was happy and didn’t have to worry about my boyfriend’s crazy fake wife, murders, and crooked FBI agents. I used to be strong. I save lives, for fuck’s sake. I’m faced with trauma every day at work. I’m a great nurse and a powerful person. Those are all the things I say internally, because I can’t stand seeing myself like this. I’m not some weak person who’ll just cower behind Liam to rescue me.
I push my shoulders back and reach for the small bottle of lotion sitting on the surface. I rub it into my skin, plucking the corners of my eyes, hoping to release some of the puffiness. Next, I dress in the items he loaned me and exit the steamy room, heading straight for the kitchen.
I rub my hand over my stomach to silence the loud roar it makes when I enter the kitchen. The snacks I consumed during the drive to Escape only teased my appetite. The hunger beast roars again, demanding I feed it. I open the fridge, scanning its contents for something, anything to eat and calm my nerves. A smile parts my lips because I realize I’ve hit the jackpot. Or at least it feels that way.
A carton of eggs, a pack of bacon, a load of veggies, and plenty of beverages greet me. There are even glass containers filled with leftovers. Unable to decide, I pull out everything only to decide on breakfast. I don’t care that it’s noon, it’s been awhile since I’ve actually sat down for the most important meal of the day. Most days it’s coffee and a cold bagel as I rush to the hospital to start my shift. Or day-old sandwiches from the cafeteria if I’m on the night shift.
I search through his cupboards for dishes to cook my food but stumble across his pantry. Waffles. My eyes beam, and I dart them around the space, feeling giddy when I find what I’m looking for. I snag the pancake mix and syrup and let the door close with a slam.
“You all right?” Liam calls out from the living room.
I ignore him and get to work preparing my food. It takes me a second to figure out how to operate his stove, but once I do, I pop an aluminum-lined baking sheet into the oven with two rows of cut bacon. Leaving it to cook, I peel and slice three large potatoes and prep my eggs with a splash of milk and shredded cheese. I save the eggs for last, I oil a skillet for some good home-fried potatoes and begin whipping up enough mix for two waffles.
I’m so focused on the task at hand that I don’t hear Liam enter the room. It isn’t until the cabinet door snaps shut that I notice his presence. He laughs, but I don’t bother to see what’s funny.
“Smells good,” he says, his cheerfulness boiling my blood.
Liam pours himself something to drink and stands across the kitchen watching me. I can feel his eyes on me, combing over my body, just waiting for a reaction. But there’s nothing left to say to him, nothing pleasant. While I was in the shower, I thought about the situation and the years we’ve spent together. I realize maybe it wasn’t solely his fault. I’m sure he didn’t plan for things to turn out the way they had. But I can’t think around the fact he has ruined me, for the second time. I should have never let him into my house or helped him, but we’re here now in this fucked-up predicament. And while I’m stuck with him until I can go home, I don’t have to talk to him or allow him to burn my energy.
I’m tired of having these panic attacks, and I know it’s because of a combination of things. I don’t know what’s happening, it’s all taking place so fast, and I have lost control. The control I spent a year building. For a long time, my world revolved around my love for him, and I just knew we would be married with kids by now. I lost myself when that ended. That was the first of my history with these anxiety spells. My version of PTSD, I guess. They’ve been manageable for a while now, but in the last two days, I’ve had more than I ever have.
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn't. He just stays there, quietly observing me. I throw a quick glance his way, pretending I’m searching for something and not really looking at him. He’s leaning against the counter, holding his drink with his slung hand while the good one is pressed into the surface. He sips, and I allow my eyes to meet his face, only for a second. I don’t know what I read in his expression. It’s part snarkiness and partly something else.
My food is done, and I’m hungrier now than I was when I started cooking. I place everything on a plate, cleaning the dishes as I go. After wiping my hands on a drying cloth, I take my meal and an ice-cold glass of water in my room. As I exit the kitchen, Liam moves from his place and heads toward the stove.
“Did she not cook me any?” he mutters. “Oh,” he adds after seeing the leftovers.
Believe me, it was very tempting to be a bitch and only cook enough for me. I almost did, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I still don’t like him, but I won’t let him go hungry. I shut the door behind me to eat in peace.
A few hours later, Liam’s voice pulls me from a nap. I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep, but with nothing to do except stare at the wall, it’s no surprise. I grab my dirty dishes from the nightstand and step out into the hall. The closer I get, the louder he becomes. His back is to me when I walk past the living room and into the kitchen. The plate and glass clink against the bottom of the sink.
Liam seems calm, giving me the impression that whoever he’s speaking with probably has good news. I lean against the archway that separates the two spaces and wait for him to end his call. A second later, he does and turns to face me, somewhat surprised to find me standing there. He taps the phone against his bad arm and averts his eyes.