Page 36 of Falling

“Looks like you’re ready to go,” a nurse says, stepping inside. Peter is on her heels. She goes over the paperwork with us. After a couple of signatures, we’re out the door.

I settle in the passenger side of the SUV to wait for Peter to walk around the hood. He wouldn’t hear of me opening my own door. Or hooking my own seat belt, for that matter.

“I booked us another night here,” he says. He starts the car, and we pull away from the hospital. “I think we can use a day off after that.” I nod as I turn to stare out the window. I’m already sleepy again. Nothing sounds better than laying around our suite for a day. Peter thinks of everything.

We travel back in silence. Reaching the hotel, we climb the stairs to our room. The only thing on my mind is washing the river away with a long, hot shower.

I leave Peter on the couch. Turning the water as hot as I can stand it, I step into the spray. It beats down on my sore muscles, cuts, and bruises. I must look like a nightmare.

When the water has shriveled half my body, I step out. There’s a mirror that runs the length of the wall behind the sink. With just a towel wrapped around my body, I stop to study myself in it. I’ve got new bruises on top of old ones. There’s a scar where I had emergency surgery as a teenager. Several tattoos grace my torso, arms, and legs.

“I’m a disaster,” I say to the man who’s now leaning against the doorjamb. I was so anxious to get into the shower, I didn’t close the bathroom door. “I mean, look at me. Who gets a mouse tattooed on their shoulder? Pathetic.”

That was always my father’s favorite word to describe me, pathetic. If you hear it enough, you begin to believe it. I let it harden me into someone everyone is scared of. I truly did become pathetic.

There’s a growl behind me. In two strides, Peter has his hand wrapped around my throat. I’m pressed against the counter, looking in the mirror. He looms over me from behind. His head ducks to kiss the mouse sitting on my shoulder.

“Is this the mouse I trapped in your apartment while you stood on the table?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Is this a quote from the book of poetry by Robert Frost I gave you on your eighteenth birthday?” He holds up my arm so I can see the script that runs down my forearm. “I thought you said it was stupid?”

“Not so stupid.”

His other hand traces a spot under the towel on my hip.

“Is this the boat we hid in from your father that night?”

I nod.

“And did your father teach you that word? Pathetic?” I try to look away from the mirror, but he tightens his grip on my throat. It’s not enough to bruise, but it catches my attention. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, I do.

“Do you want to know what words I see you as?” He waits until I nod again. “Beautiful, smart, fierce, strong, brave, sexy. Do you need me to keep going?” I shake my head. “I will keep telling you what I see until you believe it yourself. Who do you think knows you better, me or your father?”

“You,” I whisper.

“Damn right, me.” He leans down until his lips are almost touching my ear. “Now, my beautiful, smart, fierce, strong, brave, sexy woman, get dressed so I can feed you.” He releases me and sweeps from the room.

I take a moment to regain my equilibrium. How does he do that? How does Peter send me so off balance I can’t remember which way is up?

“Now, missy,” he barks from the living area. I jump and quickly pull on my clothes.

He doesn’t realize it, but I can’t get the smile off of my face. It’ll take years for him to make me believe his words. But I’m beginning to think I’d like to stick around until he does.

fourteen

PETER

My grandmotheronce used the word trifling to describe my brother and me. I’m beginning to understand what she meant. Geneva is nothing if she’s not trifling.

I worried that her nightmares would come back last night. They must have, because she climbed into bed with me in the wee hours of the morning. Apparently, we’re now sleeping together, just not “sleeping” together.

She was already gone when I woke up this morning. I found her sipping on a coffee near the windows in the restaurant downstairs. After everything, she still stares at the view like it takes her breath away. I slide into the seat across from her.

“Look who finally dragged himself out. I thought you’d decided to become a gentleman of leisure,” she says. Her eyes twinkle with a spark of her usual mischief.

“My bed got cold,” I say.

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