Page 3 of The Sicilian's Obsession
Katima
How embarrassing. In the truck heading back to the lab, all I could think about was what had happened at the diner. I replayed it repeatedly. I hated opening my mouth. Words just stuck in my throat, making it hard for me to speak. Then when I did talk, my stupid words tripped over themselves, causing me to stutter. I've been like this for as long as I could remember. My dad had taken me to therapists, specialists, and the best doctors money could buy. No one had an answer. When I was younger, they kept me on all kinds of medications, trying tofixme. After a while, I decided I didn't need any fixing. No one could understand the gripping anxiety I had. It stole my voice, stripping me of my ability to communicate. Arturo Cruz was just like everyone else—the snide way he called me princess, the judgment I saw in his ever-green eyes. He thought I was stuck-up, a priss, a prude, a bitch. I've heard it all before—that I thought I was better than everyone, that I had an attitude. Tears filled my eyes, warping the mountains I was watching in the distance from the car window. I blinked furiously, not allowing any of them to fall from my sockets. We pulled into the parking lot of Sweets Incorporated and I hopped out of Arturo's truck, jostling my knees on the way down. I refused to fall. I sent a quick text to Rebecca, telling her I would be out for the rest of the day and back bright and early tomorrow, so she could take off if she wanted to. I motioned for Arturo to follow me and got into my Benz. I drove to my house on the outskirts of town. Just like my life, I lived on the outside looking in. Silent, I spent the drive thinking of all the ways I was screwed up. You would think a girl like me, who had everything in life handed to her, would be stable, emotionally well-balanced, happy. But I wasn't. I was a mess. I couldn't even live on my own. I rolled to a stop in our winding driveway. I stepped out of my Benz and went straight to the front door, not looking at Arturo as I went.
Arturo was scanning the property as I inserted the key into the front door. His gaze was analytical. He probably thought we would live in a luxurious mansion. We live in a five bedroom, two and a half bath, ranch-style home. It was still too large for a small family of two. I left Arturo in the living room and headed to my bedroom, my sanctuary, filled with everything I needed to escape from the world except food. I looked around and frowned. I didn't realize how messy this room was. I tried to think back to the last time I did laundry but couldn't. No one stepped foot in my bedroom because they could potentially move something and put it back in the wrong place. I should rectify that. I wasn't used to anyone being home, so I never had to retreat completely. I stripped off my clothes and headed to the bathroom connected to the room. I drew a bath and filled it with lemons and lavender. Probably an odd combination, but I loved the citrus smell mixed with the relaxing scent of the lavender. It was supposed to help my anxiety. I watched the bath fill up, wondering if I disappeared if anyone would miss me. I'm sure my dad would, but maybe he would be better off. No more worrying about my safety. No more going out if his way to make me comfortable. No more putting his life on hold to deal with my eccentricities. I sank into the tub just as there was a knock at the door. I panicked before I remembered the bodyguard on the premises. Of course, he would come and check on me. It was his job.
Arturo's tenor came through the door, "Katima?"
"You can come in." I was able to answer without any stuttering. Probably because I couldn't see him. The door was a barrier, making my anxiety less.
The door swung open, revealing Arturo. He'd changed his combat boots to a clean pair of black sneakers. Thank goodness. I would hate to have to clean a mud trail when I went to clean the house down later.
"Can we go over your schedule?" Arturo shuffled his feet back and forth. If I didn't know any better, I would say he was really uncomfortable in this situation. I looked down, checking that the bubbles in my bath covered my body. Not like there was anything to see. I was petite. In school, kids would say I had an eating disorder. Bulimia, because I ate so much. I stopped eating in front of people. So, of course, that meant I had developed anorexia. When that got boring, it was drugs. It got so bad, Dad pulled me out of school and brought in private tutors instead.
''What?" I had to speak in one-word sentences, otherwise I'd stutter and embarrass myself.
"I need to know your daily habits, where we are going, who we are seeing, things like that." I could tell Arturo didn't understand me at all.
"Itinerary?" I wanted to just text him, but I wasn't getting out of my bath to do so.
"You want to send me a daily itinerary?" Arturo spoke slowly and I didn't know him well enough to know if I should be offended or not. Instead, I nodded my head yes and hoped he'd go away. Arturo grunted and abruptly left the bathroom, leaving the door open. That pissed me off. It was petty. All the hot air was seeping out of the room now. Since the ambience was ruined, I got out and dried off. I threw on a pair of yoga pants, fuzzy socks and my old Venom shirt that I used to lounge around in or clean or cook in. It was my favorite shirt, well worn and stretched out in all the right places. One of my paid-for-by-my-daddy friends wore this shirt for me for a week because she was bigger than I was and could stretch it out more. I padded to the utility closet and got out all my supplies. I went back and forth from there to the kitchen. The only item I couldn't find were my disposable gloves, throwing off the routine. Dad must have moved them, or the housekeeper, again. She needs to be fired. Dad was always making it harder on me. I searched everywhere for these gloves. Finally, Arturo stopped me.
Exasperated, he said, "What are you looking for?"
I said shortly, "Gloves." He looked confused. He obviously wasn't that great of an observer.
I curtly added, "Cleaning," motioning to the kitchen. The supplies were all lined up in order on the counter.
"Cleaning? Don't you have a maid or something?" His brow furrowed in confusion. Which, of course, drew my eyes to his. His deep green eyes, they looked like they were trying to read my soul. But I wouldn't let them. I'd never let anyone close. I never will. Without another word, I turned away from his piercing gaze. I rushed into the kitchen and started meticulously scrubbing my hands. I cleaned them just like a doctor would, up to the elbows, and I had a specific scrubber for under my nails. Then I scraped in between each nail until they turned pink. That's how I knew they were clean. If they didn't show pink or even red, then I was dirty and had to start again. There was nothing worse than being filthy.
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