Page 51 of Lace 'em Up

His expression does something wonderful then, something that settles in that same fissure his mom’s hug began to heal earlier, drawing the edges closer together, filling it in. Then he cups my cheek, brushes his lips over my forehead, and retrieves the container of cookies.

“I’ll be back,” he mutters. “And then I’ll wash and you dry.”

This is awkward.

It’s a couple of hours later, and I’ve delayed bedtime as much as possible.

But my inbox is cleared.

The gala is as organized as I can have it at this moment.

And…

It’s getting late.

So, there’s no more delaying.

Which brings me to now—standing in King’s bedroom feeling awkward as I try to navigate how sleeping next to him for real (or really, for fake).

Thankfully, he does something to break the taut silence and us staring silently at each other.

He disappears to his closet.

Smooth? Maybe not.

But effective for breaking the bizarre staring contest? Definitely.

A few moments later, he comes back into the bedroom and walks over to me. It’s not until he passes what he retrieved over to me that I realize what he’s brought out. And…I melt a little.

Because I remember the sweats and tee he gave me that night, remember being covered in his scent, in the soft fabric that had once adorned his body.

I remember how it made me feel.

How safe it made me feel.

So, even though my bag with my clothes is currently shoved into a corner of his closet—my cozy pjs and socks waiting for me—I just take the T-shirt and disappear into the bathroom, thankful that making that walk only hurts if I step the wrong way.

I’m getting better.

Slowly and steadily.

And I’ll keep going.

It’s the only thing I know how to do.

I close the door behind me, peel off my pants, my shirt, my bra, but leave on my underwear and socks before I pull King’s tee over my head.

Spice and male.

Kingston.

Safe.

I inhale deeply, hold that scent in my lungs, committing it to memory.

Then I get it together enough to unzip the toiletry bag I stashed in here earlier, to wash my face—and the makeup that’s currently covering up the remnants of the bruises Phillip gave me. I brush and floss and slap on moisturizer and hand cream.

With nothing else to delay me, and knowing that King likely needs to use the bathroom for whatever evening ablutions he partakes in, I leave the awkward-free space of the bathroom and go back out into his bedroom.

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