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It’s just that in spite of the sun coming out after the rain, I’m so cold. Cold and wet and miserable and tired. Most of all tired. I swear I might collapse at Xavier’s feet I’m so tired.
And wouldn’t that show him, the cruel jackass. He’s no more the good-hearted hero than I am Cinderella. This is no fairytale. It’s real and ugly and fucked up.
And you just have to play along and see it through to the conclusion while trying to keep your sanity intact.
No biggie.
I’ll just ignore the swell of emotions that rushes when he picks me up into his arms. Not in a fireman’s carry this time. No, he swings my legs up and puts one of his huge arms underneath my knees, the other securely under my back. My arms shoot around his neck for lack of anywhere else to hold onto. He heads straight for the house. I’m weak from the days without food and I clutch onto him with the little bit of strength I’ve got remaining.
Once we’re inside, he doesn’t head upstairs to get cleaned up like I think he will. No, instead he heads toward the kitchen.
He sits me down on the single dining room chair, then swiftly walks out again. Almost immediately I lay my head down on the table, staring after him in the direction he left.
Okay, so food will come first. That’s good. Very good.
He returns a couple minutes later, carrying one of the large arm chairs from the den. The chair is piled with towels and blankets. It barely fits through the door to the kitchen, but he sets it down and shimmies it through sideways. Then he hauls it so that it’s right beside the stove.
Without a word, he comes back to me, picks me up, and carries me over to the plush chair. When he deposits me on it, he wraps me in the blankets, tucking them around me like a parent might a child.
I can only blink up blankly at him during all of this. I don’t really know how to handle this side of him. The man who tosses me into an outdoor dog kennel for three days is easy to hate.
This incarnation who caresses my hair and whispers, “Shh, you’re doing so good, everything’s going to be easier now, just rest while I make us some food.”
Him, I don’t know what to do w
ith.
He curls up one of the blankets like a pillow against the wingback chair. “There, rest your head,” he urges, helping me settle my head against it.
I don’t even flinch at his touch this time. I feel strange and almost numb. From hunger? I’m not sure. I just know I don’t feel like myself.
I pull my knees up and curl into the chair, watching Xavier as he pulls a small kitchen towel out of one of the drawers and runs warm water over it from the tap. Then, without a word, he comes back to me and washes my face. The rag is warm as he scrubs in long strokes from my cheeks down over my neck to my throat. His motions are slow and unhurried. Soothing even.
He finishes quickly. Then he silently fires up the gas stove and pulls eggs and bacon out of the fridge. He fries the bacon first and it smells so good that it makes my empty stomach cramp. I briefly wonder why he’s making breakfast food even though it’s almost nighttime.
Xavier still seems perfectly at ease, though, pulling the bacon out of the pan with a fork and then cracking eggs into the sizzling grease without looking over at me once. He washes his hands while the eggs cook then flips them with the fork at the end to scramble them. He piles them onto two plates and peels a couple of tangerines before setting the plates at the head of the table. Guess it’s breakfast for dinner tonight. Apart from the tangerines substituted for pancakes, it’s the same meal I refused that first morning.
Only once he’s set the plates down does he look my way again.
Maybe he’ll let it slide tonight because I’m so tired and I can just eat my food like a normal person? We can start up the whole charade tomorrow and—
Then I see him retrieve a large square pillow from inside the bottom cupboard and lay it on the ground beside his chair.
Or not.
He comes over to me and reaches both hands out. I’m not sure if it’s better or worse when he doesn’t just manhandle me. Holding his hands out to me like this, it’s a request to do what he wants. Like I can choose to obey or not.
But no, my foggy food-deprived brain tries to remind me—appearing to comply on the outside doesn’t mean that I’m actually giving in. I’m just being smart and getting some goddamned sustenance.
There’s no point in starving.
Or spending another night out in the kennel.
I drop my feet to the ground, lift my weary arms, and grasp his big hands. He hefts me to my feet and wraps a sturdy arm around my waist as he leads me over to the pillow beside his chair, where he helps me lower to my knees.
Again, everything in me rebels. Except my stomach. My empty stomach is very on board with whatever will get it food the fastest.
I crouch down on the little pillow, jaw tight.
