Page 227 of Red Marked

I’m going to drive myself crazy if I try.

But I don’t want to go over there either. I don’t want to see them together. I don’t want to see his arm around her again, or her leg against his on that sofa, or that fucking grin.

Fuck that.

I’d look like an idiot. Worse than that, one look at my face, and he’d know I’ve had my hands all over her. She doesn’t deserve that. I’m not the one who gets to mess that up.

Shit.

I won’t be able to rest until I know she’s fine. I’ll check on her. That’s all. I’ll make sure she’s okay, and then I’ll leave.

I put cash on the table, more than the bill, and tuck it under the mug. The kid is coming with my plate as I reach the door.

“Sorry,” I tell him. “Something came up.”

It doesn’t take me long to get there. I park two houses up, under a tree, like a fucking criminal, and sit with my hands on the wheel.

I’m not knocking or walking up that slate path like a normal person. I’m going to creep around the side of that house and look through the windows like a stalker. If I get an eyeful of the two of them, then good. That’s what I deserve.

I get out.

I keep to the wall. The gate is standing open again.

I walk across the lawn instead of the path, trying to look like I belong, like this is normal. Then I step up onto the porch at the far corner.

The first window is the living room. There’s no one there. Then the dining room, and I get the same.

Then I hear them. A fork on a plate and his voice.

The kitchen is in the back corner. The sliding door stands open onto the deck, and I stop at the edge of the window and look in.

They’re at the island. She’s on a stool with her back half to me, in gray sweats and a T-shirt. He’s in boxers with his chest bare, on the stool right next to hers, turned toward her, close enough that their knees touch. There’s a plate in front of each of them, a stack of pancakes on them, and a jug of syrup between them.

She takes a bite, closes her eyes, and makes a noise.

That noise.

She’s having one of her food-gasms.

I grit my teeth, on the verge of turning and leaving.

Why the fuck am I here?

“Oh my word, Jett,” she says around the pancake.

“Right?” He’s grinning at her. “I told you that you’d love blueberry pancakes with chocolate chips.”

I’ll watch for a few minutes. Make sure all is well and then get out of here before a neighbor calls the cops.

What the hell has my life become?

“Do you remember the first time I made you these?” he says.

“Mmm.” She’s cutting another piece.

“It was the day of your dad’s fiftieth. I said I’d do breakfast for everyone, and I’d never made a pancake in my life. I was up at five with a cookbook. The first six went in the trash.”

Star laughs. “The smoke alarm went off.”