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I’d barely finished half the sandwich before Elliot pulled back the covers and helped me into his bed and left me to sleep like a small helpless child.
The shame still lingers but it’s swamped by the grief, the endless heartache.
Slipping my hand beneath the covers, I run my fingers over the dressing on my inner thigh, wincing. But pain and shame aren’t the only things I feel when I think about how it felt to cut myself.
I shake off the unwanted thoughts, desperately trying to fight the urge to run into his bathroom and find something sharp enough to give me that moment of release.
Of sheer and utter relief.
Fear prevents me from even getting out of bed though. If Elliot ever catches me doing that again… I don’t want to think about what he might do or who he might tell.
I blink away the tears burning the backs of my eyes as I roll onto my back, my gaze snagging on the clock on the wall.
It’s late. A little past ten. I wonder what Elliot’s doing.
Before, I might have gone to find out. But I’m not that girl now.
Now he’s made it clear where we stand.
I can’t ignore the urge to pee though, so with a gentle huff, I shove back the covers and lean over to switch on the lamp.
Standing, I?—
“Dear God, you scared me,” I blurt, taking in Elliot as he runs a hand down his face. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
“When you said you’d figure something out, I didn’t think you meant you’d sit and watch me like a stalker.”
“I’m… That’s not what I was doing.”
I arch a brow not buying it for one second. “You don’t trust me,” I say, realisation hitting me dead in the chest.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I need to pee.” I wave him off as I drag my weary body into his small bathroom.
The second the door clicks shut behind me, I let loose a breath.
This isn’t going to work. I can’t stay here with Elliot watching my every move.
But he has a point.
Elliot doesn’t trust me.
And the hard truth is, I don’t trust myself either.
Inhaling a sharp breath, I make quick work of peeing before washing my hands.
Much like his bedroom, Elliot’s bathroom is clean and tidy and decorated in the muted tones he seems to favour. One wall in here is a deep bluish-grey colour that reminds me of his eyes, the storm permanently swirling there.
God, what am I doing here?
I need to shore up my defences against him. Not let him rescue me at every turn.
His white-knight routine confuses me. Makes my silly foolish heart flutter wildly in my chest. But I must remember the truth. Elliot isn’t helping me because he cares like that. He’s helping me because he feels obligated to do so.
I’m a burden to him, a responsibility he feels he must bear.
