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He silences my thoughts by handing me the book. “Yeah, sure. Okay.”
I puff out a silent breath of relief as he rounds the bed and sits down. It takes every bit of strength I have not to watch as he takes his next bite and opens the laptop again.
I skim the pages of the book, not actually reading anything. Instead, I’mwaiting, waiting, waitingfor him to take another bite. As the movie begins again, he does. A slow, tentative bite, like he thinks I might have placed shards of glass in the bowl in his absence.
After the first bite, he takes a larger one, and I silently revel in my achievement.
I fight against a grin as I read my words, knowing the woman who wrote them would be proud of how far I’ve come. From not knowing if I wanted to live, from not knowing if what I was doing should even be considered living, to this. To fighting for my life with every fiber of my being.
He shovels another scoop of ice cream into his mouth as Harrison Ford appears on the screen. Declan used to tease me about my crush on him and this movie being the reason it all started, but who could blame me? Even as a murderer, the guy could get it.
With several more spoonfuls of ice cream, he finishes the bowl and sets it down. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, disappointed to see he’s not yet dead. I’m not sure what I expected exactly. Maybe an Agatha Christie-esque death: a clutching of his throat, a sudden collapse to the floor, tremors. Something, anything.
Apparently, I’m not as skilled a murderer as my books would lead you to believe. Then again, a lack of internet means I’m relying only on what I know, and though I consider myself a wealth of useless knowledge, my skills, tools, and resources are limited in this room. If I had any number of weapons, chemicals, or poisonous plants here with me, I’d be unstoppable.
He leans back next to me against the headboard, hands behind his head with a smug grin on his face as we watch the movie. Every once in a while, I hear him breathe a bit strangely or see him scratch his neck or move his hand in the general direction of his face, and my chest swells with hope.
Every cough is a sign the end is coming. Every scratch of his nose tells me he’s going to fall over at any moment.
But the moment doesn’t come. Not for any of the next several minutes. The wait is excruciating.
When I locate the page I’ve been looking for, I hold a finger on it. I’d dog-ear it if I didn’t think he might kill me for it.
I breathe slowly, trying not to think about my family every time I look at the screen. This movie is one of the many things that reminds me of them. So many random, everyday things make me miss them. Chicken parm and burgers with barbecue sauce.Impractical Jokers.New shoes. The card gameUNO. Our kitchen table. Those little glasses that look like cans. And especially these old movies, which I spent so much time watching with Declan and then Liam once he was old enough.
As a kid, he loved the oldGoosebumpsseries. I tried to get him to read the books, and though he thought they were interesting, he was utterly fascinated by the show. As a parent, I never would’ve cared what my child did for a living, what dreams he wanted to pursue. I never wanted to push my goals on him. But I was ruthless in my determination to make him love all things dark and creepy, just like I do.
These days, I wish I’d shown him just a little more light in his short life. A little more love, happiness. I thought I did enough, but once they’re gone, we never really know, do we?
All too soon, the movie ends, and we’re left in devastating silence. Chris looks over at me, his gaze demanding.
“So… Are you ready?”
I swallow, defeat enshrouding me. Either he has an iron stomach, the poison needs hours to take effect, or they’re lying to us all as kids about how poisonous toothpaste is.
I need him to die in this room, to pass out in this room at a minimum, so I have the keys to escape. But it’s looking less and less likely that it’s going to happen.
Turning to face him, I stifle a fake yawn, hoping I’m not making a grave mistake when I say, “I don’t know… Are you sure you want to do this tonight? It’s getting late.”
He takes the book from my hands, marking the page with his thumb. “It won’t take long.” I grip the pencil in my palm, running my thumb over the eraser as he opens the book and begins to read.
“The car is moving too fast. I realize it as we round a curve, tires skidding on the gravel road. If he notices, he doesn’t care. We take another curve, and this time, the car slides too far too fast. It happens in slow motion and all at once. We’re flying and falling. I put a hand up to stop myself, nearly dropping the ice pick. The car seems to freefall as it skids into a ditch, and a scream erupts from my throat. My stomach lurches as I grab the handle above my head, bracing for impact.
“Ian reaches for my hand as the car flips. We land on our side with an explosion of glass. I clutch my chest, catching my breath and assessing myself for injuries. I think I’m okay. I look over at Ian, who’s looking at me as if he just ran a marathon. His lips curve into a smile. ‘You okay?’ he asks. I nod as he leans toward me, eyes on my lips. We nearly died, and it’s all his fault.” He drops the book on the bed, reciting the rest from memory. “As he leans farther across the car, his lips touch mine…”
He edges forward, and I hold my breath, closing my eyes just before his mouth claims mine. He does it without hesitation, the kiss too aggressive. His teeth bang against my lips, his ice-cold tongue shoving into my mouth with too much force. It takes me several seconds to react—to know, process, and try to accept the fact that he’s the first man who’s kissed me since Declan. My hand squeezes around the pencil, and I lift it in the air. He cups my skull, tilting my head back so he can continue sucking out my soul. I lower the pencil to his neck, and he jerks back, a hand covering the place as if it were a real wound. I go to roll away, but he grabs me.
His mouth comes back to mine, just like in the book, kissing me through his pain, and I mock-stab him again. This time, he goes off script, shoving his hand up my shirt and launching himself on top of me with a deep, guttural groan. The evidence of his excitement is pressed against my stomach.
I’m going to throw up.
He kisses me again, tasting of garlic from the pizza and too much mint. I struggle underneath him.
“Okay. That’s enough, Chris. We’re done,” I say, trying and failing to push his hand away. He kisses my lips harder, silencing me, and when I hear his zipper, my blood runs cold. “No, Chris. This isn’t part of the story. Please. Please stop. You don’t want to do this,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes.
He freezes suddenly, out of his trance, and jumps back from me as if I’m a flame. His stomach growls loudly, gurgling as he pushes up from the bed. An odd sort of look comes over his face, his skin visibly paling in front of me. Then his eyes widen, and his expression goes sheepish with concern.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” he announces abruptly, grabbing his laptop and darting out of the room without another word. He locks the door behind him, and I listen as he rushes up the stairs. I can’t help the silent laughter that escapes me.
