ELLA
A partner of The Firm will immediately respond to a client’s distress signals by providing one-on-one support. This may include a counseling session, medical attention, or an otherwise agreed-upon mediation.
Today is not a good day. There are good days and there are bad days. “Bad” isn’t a strong enough word for how fucking awful they are, but I suppose it’s the appropriate counter to good.
The moment I woke up, I knew every minute was going to be harder than the last. The moment my eyes opened and I forgot, then remembered … that was my warning. It’s an emptiness that takes over initially. It seeps slowly within me throughout the day, making the tips of my fingers cold at first and then it spreads. My mouth turns dry, my stomach empty but I don’t wish to fill it. I don’t want to be warm, I don’t want my thirst quenched. The only desire is to sit in it, to feel that desolation so as to ensure I won’t forget again. Because how could I have possibly forgotten? How could I not wake up every day and feel that loss?
Tears prick at the back of my already tired eyes and like always, I ignore them. I don’tallow anything to fall. I’ve never been a fan of crying. Not since I was a little girl and the videos of me mourning my mother being taken from me, her subsequent suicide, and my father’s treatment toward me … it all led to useless tears and each video I’d made was played back until I realized how much I truly hated the act of crying. So if I can, I withhold it; I acknowledge the urge, but I don’t like to see the tears fall.
Instead, I blow across the steam of the fifth cup of tea I’ve made today. I thought Damon may have been able to smell the whiskey remnants in the last cup. I thought when he left after he offered to pick up for me and refill it, that he would go check the surveillance feed and discover I’d spiked the drink.
I’ve never held my breath over the judgment of a man I’m not sleeping with, but I’d be damned if I said I didn’t then. All day, he’s given me space, allowed me to simply lie here, the television screen on, yet with only a logo blinking across it since I haven’t pressed play for hours.
Kam slipped me an apology package a couple days ago after our blowup, six little glass bottles of amber warmth. It’s an expensive variety and they fit neatly in the small pocket of my robe. I’ve gone through three so far today. Well, two and a half. The rest of the previous bottle is tucked away beneath the throw pillow under my arm. I hid it there just in case Damon came back with accusations rather than a fresh cup.
Luckily for me, Damon doesn’t suspect anything. If he does, he allows me to have it without mentioning it. Every day, I trust him more. I told him so just yesterday and before he left, he told me every day he trusted me more too. It would be horrid of me to break that trust the very next day.
The thought hovers at the back of my mind as I blow across the tea, feeling the billow of steam tickle the tip of my nose.
I don’t sip; it’s far too hot as it is. The ceramic tinks as I set it down on the mahogany coffee table and lay back into the tan tweed sofa. The walls of the rec room are an off-white hue and if I truly wished to drift off to sleep, I know I would have emptied that little glass bottle just like Alice did on her way to Wonderland. I also would have chosen the much darker sitting room, or the guest bedroom with its thick velvet curtains.
Choosing the rec room, choosing to prop my head up on the pillow rather than bury my face into the cushion, choosing to turn on the television, although I have amazingly failed at such a simple task of watching a mundane home improvement show that I would have devoured years ago—all of that—proves I’m fighting sleep. The steam drifts from the teacup and I watch it dissipate in the dim light from the sconce on the far wall.
There’s a soft creak of the floorboards behind the entryway and I nearly give in to the instinct to look, but I refuse it. If I make eye contact with Damon or someone else, they’ll ask me questions.
“Do you need anything?” “What is it you want?” “Can I do something to help?”
Every question adds a weight to my chest. I don’t have answers for myself, let alone anyone else. Especially right now, when I’m having trouble fighting back my demons.
Let me be. Let them swallow me whole. Why should they concern themselves with the devil of a hell only I’m invited to?
“There you are.” The rough timbre from behind me is soothing as it caresses every inch of me. I hear him, I feel him; his presence overwhelms me before I even open my eyes.
I don’t want him now, though. Not like this. Not when I’m barely holding on.
My eyes are barely open as I watch him, remaining completely still where I am sprawled across the sofa. I’m aware my robe is open slightly, the delicate silk so easily parted. Beneath it is what I wore to bed last night, a simple chiffon chemise.
I anticipate the questions. At the very least, some variation of, “How are you today?” And when they don’t come, some insecurity I’m not at all comfortable with wonders if he’ll chastise me for my attire. Of all the things in the world, that sneaks to the surface. My father’s scolds reverberate in the back of my skull, springing up from the depths I’d pushed them to decades ago.
My gaze shifts from the hem of my nightgown, where apparently shame resides, to a dark gray fleece blanket that’s gently placed over my body.
With my lips parted in protest, I meet Zander’s gaze and I’m silenced by it. The intensity. The ownership.
It steals everything from me.
“You’ll be cold without it,” is the only explanation he offers me. As he steps away from the sofa, I wish I had the courage to tell him I’m cold with it as well, but I’m silent.
He’s donned a faded pair of jeans he wears often, I absently wonder if they’re his favorite, and a white, long-sleeved polo. Simple yet still seemingly refined on a rugged man like him. Especially when paired with his five o’clock shadow.
The moment I prepare to ask for privacy, already feeling the disappointment growing in my chest, Zander stands, leaving the long chair on the side of the room and instead taking a seat at the end of the sofa I’m occupying. The sofa groans, the sound swallowing the protest that’s caught at the back of my throat. He’s so very close, I nearly have to bend my legs even further so my feet won’t be in the way. As it is, I don’t have to, nor do I dare move at all.
Although I do have the urge to stretch out my legs and place my feet in his lap. I resist it successfully, though, waiting instead for Zander to speak.
I haven’t wanted to see anyone else, let alone talk all morning and evening, but right now the only thing screaming to be heard from my lips is speak.
I want an explanation. The men typically stay several feet away, but Zander seems to have forgotten that. He stretches out casually, although his stiffness tells me he’s anything but.
Leaning back, he exhales in an exaggerated huff and then peers down at me.