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I gulp. “Yeah?”
“Be a good girl and take the pill I left next to the sink. I expect you to be asleep before I get back. But remember, not on the furniture.”
He leaves.
I stand in silence for a long moment, trying to get my head on right.
The only conclusion I come to is this: I don’t like him.
Pretty sure I hate him.
But I avoid the couch on my way to collect the dropped glass, and I don’t sit at the breakfast bar either. I set the glass in the sink and eye the pill left out next to another cup of water. It’s white, small. It doesn’t have a label on it, no markings to give me any clues.
Not that I even know where my phone is.
There are two options: I ignore him and curl up on the couch, binge-watch television until he gets home. Or… I take the pill.
I get a thrill from that. A little chase of it up my spine.
Because it’s a drug?
Because I don’t know what it might do to me?
He could’ve lied and justtoldme that it would put me to sleep. Or maybe it’s a stimulant, meant to purposefully make me unable to follow his rules.
Nothing I’ve read about has spoken about sexuality likethis.
Natalie, quite embarrassingly, had a sex talk with me the first week I lived with them. Because apparently I wouldn’t know about condoms, or where to stick a penis, or pregnancy. I don’t think amnesia works like that, because it seemed like common sense.
I check around for my phone and come up empty-handed.
His office door is locked up tight. The television is on mute, showing some news report, but even the remote has gone missing.
Bastard.
I grit my teeth and peruse the kitchen. I drag out the broom and sweep the floor, then pour myself a glass of wine from the fridge. I drink it probably faster than I should, and droplets of white wine escape from the corners of my lips and run down my face.
What does it matter?
I’m naked anyway. It’s not like I’m making any more of a mess of myself.
I fiddle and putter for over an hour. Until I spot Jacob—blurry, of course, because my glasses are still in my room—on the TV screen. I get closer to see better.
His blue tie is done up in a perfect knot at his throat, his hair combed into something presentable. The tie makes his eyes seem more two-toned, pulling the gold color out from the starburst around his pupils.
His lips move, and I frown at the lack of sound.
There aren’t any buttons on the TV to get the words out—not that I can reach anyway.
I laugh.
He probably did that on purpose.
And now I’m frustrated all over again. His fingers drum on the podium. He’s miles and miles away, and those fingers do something to me. To my heart, or… I don’t know.
I turn away sharply. It’s easier to ignore him when I can’t hear. I go to the bathroom and shower again, if only todosomething.
When I return, there’s another player talking.
