Page 64 of Tell Me What You Want

No response.

I can see fury, fire, and bewilderment in his eyes.

I want him to go. I want him to get out of my room before the viper in me resurfaces and ends up saying even more hateful things. But Eric doesn’t move. He simply stares at me until he snaps and walks away. When the door closes, my hand goes to my mouth and I burst into tears.

Ten minutes later, I’m in the shower.

I need to get his smell off my skin.

When I step out, my mind is very clear about one thing. I have to get out of here. I pick up my cell and reserve a return ticket to Madrid. At eleven that night, I’m sitting on a plane and mentally reviewing the note I left on my bed that I’m sure he’ll find and read.

Mr.Zimmerman,

I’ll be back on Sunday evening to continue our work. If you’ve dismissed me, let me know so I can spare myself the return trip.

Regards,

Judith Flores

22

When I wake up in my own bed on Friday, I take a glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand. It’s seven minutes after one. I’ve slept away the morning. Since my sister doesn’t know I’m back, she hasn’t come over, and for just a few seconds, I’m so relieved. I really don’t want to have to explain anything.

As soon as I get up, I look for my cell. Turns out it’s in my bag, on “Silent.” Two missed calls from my sister, two from Fernando, and twelve from Eric. Whoa!

I don’t answer any of them. I don’t want to talk to anybody.

My anger returns, and I decide to clean house. Whenever I’m really mad, housecleaning is my best therapy.

By three in the afternoon, my apartment is upside down. Clothes everywhere, bleach, furniture out of place ... but I couldn’t care less. I’m the queen of the house. I’m the boss here. Suddenly, I feel an urge to iron. As I sing along with the radio, I put away all the trouble that’s been hammering in my head: Eric. I iron a dress, a skirt, two T-shirts, and as I’m pressing a polo, my eyes catch a glimpse of a red ball on the floor. I immediately think of Curro—my Curro—and my eyes blur with tears. I yelp. I’ve burned my forearm with the iron!

It’s as red as my soccer team’s shirts; I can even make out the iron’s shape and trademark. It hurts like hell! As I hop in pain around the house, I consider putting it under water or smearing toothpaste on it. I’ve always heard about those remedies, but I have no idea if they work. Eventually, I decide to go to the hospital.

At seven o’clock in the evening, I finally get in to see someone.

A charming doctor gently pours something on the burn, then dresses and bandages it. She gives me a script for some painkillers and sends me home.

Still in hellish agony, and with my arm bandaged, I go hunting for a pharmacy that might be open. As is always the case in these circumstances, the nearest one is somewhere in the next galaxy. After I get what I need, I make my way home. I’m still in pain, exhausted, and pissed. But no sooner do I get to the vestibule in my building than I hear someone behind me.

“Don’t ever leave again without letting me know first.”

That voice paralyzes me.

It enrages but also comforts me.

I turn and see the man who’s been driving me out of my mind. He’s very serious. Without knowing why, exactly, I raise my arm.

“I burned myself with the iron,” I say as I show him. My eyes fill with tears. “It really hurts.”

When he sees the bandage on my arm, he loses all his bravado. Iceman exits and Eric comes back. The Eric I like.

“Oh, sweetness, come here.”

I go to him and he hugs me, being careful not to touch my arm. I smell him, and I feel like the most content woman in the world. We stay like that for a few minutes, until I move, and then he brings his mouth to mine and gives me a short, sweet, and tender kiss.

He’s never kissed me quite like that, and my face surely shows my surprise.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

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