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Maybe you want the same thing too.
I don’t know where the thought came from, but now that it’s here, it won’t leave.
And after everything that he’s told me tonight, is it any wonder that it’s there in the first place?
Since our stories are so similar, what if…
What if he wants the same things as me?
What if he wants a family too? A wife, a baby. Someone to share his life with, someone who understands him and protects him and keeps him safe and…
No.
Absolutely not.
I absolutely cannot think this way.
I can’t get all hopeful and romantic and forget why I’m here to begin with.
I’m here for myself.
Not for him or anyone else.
Besides, even if he does want these things, he never said he wanted them from me. Plus I can’t be the one to give them to him anyway. I can’t be the one to give him anything at all.
My life isn’t my own, remember?
So just as abruptly as I put my hand on his mouth, I take it off and fist it at my side. “This is not pity. I genuinely like the cabin.” And then just because he’s staring down at me, with so much focus and intensity like he was during dinner, I keep going. “I like the fireplace. And the couches. Although I’d put at least a little pink or purple in the room. It’s all very black and brown. And I love your armchair in the bedroom, by the window. I can sit there for hours and read. Plus your bed is amazing. It’s feels like a fluffy cloud, and even though those slats are super old-fashioned, I think I like them too. I don’t know why. I even touched them and —”
“You liked the slats,” he says.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t respond to that, choosing to simply watch me. So licking my lips, I continue, “Wouldn’t be my first choice at a store, I mean. B-but they looked strong and sturdy and —”
“That’s because they are,” he tells me.
I lick my lips again. “Okay. Well, good.”
“Is it?”
My heart’s started to race now. At his stare, his mysterious tone. “Yes. I-I mean, I’m sure you enjoy that bed.”
“More or less.”
“I fell asleep in it the moment my head hit the pillow so I’m sure you love sleeping there too.”
“Love’s a strong word.”
“Plus you bought it.”
“I did.”
“So great and —”
“For you.”
I draw back. “What?”
Which is the moment I realize that I’m trapped.
Between him and the wall.
Because at my sudden movement, my head scrapes against the wall and I know that I have nowhere to go. And while he’s still a few feet away, it still feels like being captured.
“Well, with the thought of you in my head,” he says.
I press my spine into the wall as I clarify, “Y-you bought your bed with me in your head.”
He shakes his head slowly. “No, I bought my bed with slats. With you in my head.”
“What does that…” I breathe first. “Mean?”
He inches closer. “You know what slats can be used for, don’t you?”
I press myself even further into the wall. Although it doesn’t make any difference; I’m not actually going anywhere. “Uh, to be able to hold on. If there’s an earthquake?”
He takes another step toward me. “Close but no.”
“Uh, to be able to hold on if the bed is shaking.”
“Try again.”
My heart is going and going right now. I bet he can see it, on the side of my neck, my freckle dancing with the beat. Although he still hasn’t looked away from my eyes. “I…” Then suddenly it occurs to me and makes me go heated and flushed from the top to bottom. “To t-tie someone up.”
That’s when he looks.
At the side of my neck, I mean.
That’s when he stares at my jumping pulse and dancing freckle.
And with a satisfied, wicked-looking glint in his eyes, he murmurs, “Yeah.”
“I don’t —”
“Although not someone, just you.”
“Me?” I squeak.
“Because as I said, I bought my bed with slats with you in my mind.”
Finally he’s here, where I can’t draw a breath without the threat of my breasts scraping against his chest, slamming the door of the cage that he’s made for me.
Truly trapping me between the wall and his body.
“But I don’t… When did you…”
“A few months after I saw you.”
“But that was three years ago.”
“Yeah, let’s say it was.”
“Are you…” I hiccup and clear my throat. “Are you saying that you wanted to tie me up back then?”
“Yeah.”
My breaths whoosh out of me. “Y-you did?”
“Yes.”
“Why?
“Why do you think?”
At his question, my heart slows down. My knees tremble.
And even though I’m stuck to the wall and I’ve got support, I still need more.
So I go for him.
For his t-shirt and fist it.
It’s crazy, my actions, when I’ve figured out the answer to his question. Crazy, inadvisable, dangerous. But maybe this is what they call Stockholm syndrome. Where you seek comfort from your tormentor. And isn’t every brokenhearted and lovelorn love story a classic example of Stockholm syndrome?
