Page 8 of The Crush
Full delusion. You have officially moved into full delusion. Go home.
“Hi,” Daniel says, taking a sip from the glass that had been sitting beside his chair. He levels a look at me over the rim before lowering it again. “You have the wrong night, don’t you?”
“I have an appointment tomorrow so I thought I’d come by today,” I say, giving him my practiced line as I slowly start up the short path to the stairs. “Hope that’s okay.”
His eyes fall to his lap, the corner of his mouth twisting before he stands. His boots scrape against the floorboards as he comes tothe top of the weather-worn steps, and he raises an eyebrow at me as I hold his gaze. “Sure, why wouldn’t it be.”
He doesn’t say it as a question, nor does he seem to expect an answer, so when I reach the top of the stairs, I also reach for a topic of conversation in the discarded papers he’s left behind. “What are you reading about?”
“Nothing new.” He watches me as I move closer, making me glad that this time I had dressed—well, not necessarilyup, but—nicely. My favorite pale-green sundress hitting me mid-thigh, my hair down and loose, and enough makeup on my face to hide the fact that sleep and I haven’t been getting along lately.
“Isabel,” he says after a beat of silence passes between us, and my whole body practically hums at the sound of him saying my name again. “You know my dad’s out for the night?”
“I know.”
There’s another pause as I try to convince myself not to turn and run, though when he shakes his head and looks away, I wonder if he’ll take the decision away entirely by telling me to leave.
Instead he turns, closes the distance to the front door in a few long strides, and pushes it open before stepping back. Waiting.
I walk right in.
Seven
Daniel
She keeps showing up like a lifeline.
Cast out in my direction right when I feel like drowning, right when I can’t get the headlines out of my head, right when the whiskey stops working. Like it has tonight.
I know I shouldn’t grab for it, forher. Know that if I do, I’ll only pull her down, too, but it’s so hard not to even reach when she’s so close.
I can hear her in the front room, flipping through papers and still pretending as if that’s the only reason she’s here. As if her eyes aren’t following me everywhere I go. As if I’m not lingering when I should be looking for an excuse to leave.
“Afraid we don’t have much,” I call out from the kitchen, my search for anything else besides whiskey and coffee coming up empty. “No wine. Church or otherwise.”
She laughs softly, and I like how it sounds. “Water is good.”
Would be for both of us, I think. Better that than to add fuel to a fire that I increasingly suspect I’m not the only one thinking of starting.
I take out two tall glasses and flip on the faucet, placing one under the stream as I tell myself this could be my chance to prove that I’m not past saving. That I’m more than capable of havinga polite conversation with her and then sending her on her way.Withoutwondering how good her bottom lip would feel between my teeth.
I groan, place the second glass under the tap to fill, and press my forehead against the cool dark wood of the kitchen cabinets. Attempting to distract myself with the memory of building them. Me close to breaking them by the time we were done for how much trouble they’d given us, while my dad simply stood back and smiled like they’d been worth every second.
Guess they were in the end since they are still holding up. Better than I am most days.
What would my life have been if I’d stayed here like I was supposed to? If I hadn’t always been so sure I was meant to live my life anywhere else?
Flashes of how I’d spent my days instead flood through my mind, and I grimace at the sudden onslaught, my hands gripping the edge of the counter until my fingers ache, and when I open my eyes again, it’s to see the half-empty whiskey bottle still on the counter.Maybe one more wouldn’t hurt.
With a shaking hand, I reach for a new tumbler from the cabinet, but the glass slips as soon as I hear the sound of footsteps. When I make a failed attempt to catch it, the largest of the three shattered pieces on the counter manages to slice my hand open.
“Fuck.” I immediately turn to run the cut under the faucet, violent drops of red falling into the waiting glass of water below.God, I’m so sick of blood.
Isabel’s eyes are owlish as she appears next to me. “You’re bleeding!”
Perfect. Exactly what I need. Her flustering around me in that dress.
Except she’s not flustered at all. And in no time, she’s located the first aid kit, treating the cut with an easy proficiency while I can’t help but notice the way my hand dwarfs hers or how light her fingers feel on my skin.
