Page 229 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
“It was just a joke.” His eyes are finally on me, and his hand rests on my leg.
He rubs my skin once, and I use my legs to push myself away.
“But you should have thought about how that word—that specific word—would make me feel.” I can’t help saying what comes out next. “You’ve called so many other women beautiful. Even if it was a joke, you should know that would hurt.”
“You’re looking into it too much. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
I nod, not seeing Shane sitting before me, seeing Olive and the Princess and all the other beautiful women.
“I need some space.” Hurrying over the wood floor in my long socks, I rush away from Shane.
Tears burn my eyes as I try to keep them contained. Too many of them have already crept out, and I can’t let them all fall until I’m tucked safe somewhere else in the house.
Avoiding the creepy corner he can barely pull his eyes from, I turn and find myself in the foyer. Desperate to get away from the memories of Shane’s hand around my throat, the shard to my chest, Ambrose stopping him from shoving it through my skin, I race into the music room.
It’s a relief when all my thoughts fade to nothing and there’s no sound of heavier footsteps trailing behind me.
Shane has finally given me the space I need.
The second the door clicks shut, and I have privacy, a stream of tears rush out.
A melodic yawn calls me around to see all the old—and broken—instruments and pictures of long-forgotten children on the wall. The vandals weren’t careful in this room.
I’m so grateful they’ve stopped visiting.
My eyes move from all the broken things and drop to Bubbles with her legs stretched out, wedged between a coffee table and the old sofa that Dad picked out for comfort purposes. Ambrose rests on it, a hand lost in Bubbles’ thick fur and the other holding my pretty pink edition of Jane Eyre that he glances over.
“You have my book,” I say, wiping tears on my pink sleeve.
The look on his face challenges me.
It was never my book. It was ours.
“I didn’t know you guys were in here.” I step deeper into the room.
Sofa cushions sink as Ambrose pushes himself into a sitting position. Something like concern hides beneath the white paint as I sit opposite him.
I’m not comfortable.
Sensing that, he moves over a cushion and taps the one at his side, knowing it’s always been my spot. The spot where Dad would read me stories before carrying me up to bed, where I’d huddle whenever Ambrose hogged the piano.
Slow steps take me there, and I flop down next to him close enough for me to watch how his red lips move.
Why are you upset?
“It’s nothing.” I shake my head, letting my hand drop to Bubbles’ fur. My fingers take in the recently conditioned feel, and I use her to keep myself grounded. “I took something Shane said the wrong way.”
I wipe the tear that lands on the pretty edition of Jane Eyre with the sleeve of my hoodie, and sigh with frustration when Isee the paint smeared up the side of it. Luckily, the book didn’t succumb to the same fate and isn’t stained when my eyes rush back to check.
“What chapter are you on?” A subject change is probably good.
Flicking back the pages while keeping track of his spot, he flashes the numerals at me.
Twenty-seven.
Just a little further along than I made it.
Red lips move again, asking me a question.What did Shane say?
