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After my embarrassing tantrum in front of Eli yesterday, I know I’m slowly losing it. Being trapped here should be fucking easy. I’m safe. I have everything I need and more, but I’m going stir-crazy without being able to see my classmates, professors, friends, brother, and parents.
I didn’t anticipate the emotional aspect. I’m pretty stable, considering all the shit I’ve had to deal with in my life, and I just wish people knew the real me.
The media never highlights the positive things I do. They never talk about how I donate my time to help charities, attend fundraisers, rally for women’s rights and equality for all, and I even proposed grants for underprivileged students so they could afford to attend NYU. Unfortunately, the tabloids have created a persona that’s not me, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever have an identity of my own. The biggest disappointment is knowing Elijah grew up thinking those things about me too. Though I haven’t always presented myself in the best way, I’m still human and make mistakes. And I can admit when I’m wrong or I’ve overreacted.
I felt awful for the way I treated Eli yesterday, so that’s why I went into the living room. Besides being hungry, I wanted to see if he was downstairs so I could apologize. Instead of ignoring me like I deserved, he brushed it off and made me the best damn grilled cheese I’ve ever had. As we watched his weird but equally entertaining documentary and ate our dinner, the fire crackled. It was the most relaxed I’d been in days. The setting felt romantic, but after the way things ended earlier in the day with me on my knees under the table, I was too embarrassed to sit on the couch next to him.
Eli’s the most forgiving person I’ve ever met. He didn’t force me to admit my wrongdoings, so I want to thank him and return the favor.
It won’t be much, but I’m going to try to make breakfast this morning and hopefully smooth things over with him. If we’re going to get through this together, we can’t argue like we have the past seven days.
Chanel rolls to her back, waiting for me to give her tummy scratches. The sunlight beams through the drapes, and I know if I’m going to beat Eli to the kitchen, I need to get moving.
“C’mon, girl. We can’t stay in bed all day.” I pet her for a moment, then push off the covers.
As soon as I stand, I hear a weird noise. A loud, continuous thumping echoes and when I peek out the window, I see Eli by the shed chopping wood. He’s in dark blue jeans, a college sweatshirt, and wearing a beanie with his hair down. Simple but somehow, so damn sexy. Bruno runs around barking, happier than ever, and buries his nose in the snow as he eats it.
I’m mesmerized as I watch Eli pull his arms back and strike the log, splitting it in half. He makes it look so effortless. Without him here, I’d be fucking doomed. Even if Zane hadn’t broken up with me, we might’ve lasted forty-eight hours without calling our parents to rescue us. I appreciate Ryan sending Eli here more than he’ll ever know. Otherwise, I’m not sure what I would’ve done.
I head to the kitchen and am relieved when I don’t see breakfast already made. He probably doesn’t expect me up this early, which is perfect. I can ace college exams and outsmart professors who’ve been teaching for decades but ask me how to make an omelet, and I become a freaking moron. But hell, I’m determined to learn.
Digging out the egg carton, shredded cheese, and ham, I set everything on the counter, then grab my phone to search for a YouTube tutorial. Undoubtedly, someone’s made an instructional video on how to properly do this.
I’m relieved to find a decent one by an actual chef and get started. I dice the ham steak first, then crack three eggs into a bowl and whip them with a fork. The instructor says to use an eight-inch pan, and when I dig around the cupboard, there’s at least three different sizes. Shamelessly, I picture Eli’s cock and figure out which one is eight inches by how big he is.
Next, I turn on the stove and add the vegetable oil and butter to the pan like I’m told. “That’s a lot of freaking butter,” I murmur when I see how much coats the bottom.
Once it’s hot, I add in the whipped eggs. It sizzles and the oil flicks up and burns my finger.
“Fuck,” I hiss, grabbing a towel, then rewind the video, knowing I missed a step.
I’m confused as hell and quickly dig around in the drawers in search of the same utensil used by the instructor. Realizing we don’t have one, I grab the next best thing, which looks like some kind of flipper device.
