Page 16 of Look My Way
“You too,” I say back, waiting for the front door to close behind him before turning to the stove to make my eggs. I scramble some up in a bowl, adding seasoning, and my body stiffens when my eyes land on my recipe box. It’s not as centered as it usually is, sitting closer to the right side. My eyes twitch at the uneven spaces around it. Daniel is rarely here, and I’d never move it there.
There was noise in the back yard last night, which had sounded like a mixture of rustling leaves and footsteps. A brush of air had tickled the back of my neck, and the scent of paint thinner and cedar had swept into my nose. I’ve written similar scenes in my books before. My characters trembled with fear as they felt eyes watching them. I’d envision it happening to myself whenever I was alone in my office, to get more into the scene and submerge myself fully into my characters’ experiences.
I was myself yesterday, though, and the stalker wasn’t some make-believe person either. It was Zavier. My mind created what it wanted to, imagining his scent and deep sighs. My breaths were stuttering and my body buzzed. I wanted him to be there, and it was such an irrational thought. What if someone really was there and it wasn’t him?
What if it was him? What if Daniel is right and I’m truly losing my mind and need to cut back on my work.
My phone vibrates, giving me a break from my exhausting mind, and I pour the egg mixture into the sizzling pan while looking down at my lit-up screen. When my thoughts get going, I forget what the hell I’m supposed to be doing, but my mind wasn’t this busy until Zavier came around. It has me questioning Daniel more and wondering about shit I need to put a lid on asap.
The message is from my editor, and he’s demanding an exact date for when I’ll have my book to him. He’s been telling my publishers that I’ve pushed deadlines too often lately, and about the extra edits he’s had to make on my barely acceptable manuscripts, taking credit for the end results as if he wrote them himself.
His changes were small and no different than anyone else who’s edited a book, but I swear the man has had it out for me from the beginning. He thinks I get away with too much and that I’m treated better than the other writers without putting in as much effort.
Does he not realize I have to work harder now than I used to? Between the meds’ side effects, and the headaches and dizzy spells, focusing for long periods is growing difficult. Worrying about other parts of my life doesn’t help either.
My phone goes off again and I sigh, picking it up.
Rick:I know you’re reading this. I don’t appreciate being ignored. Every time you get behind, I get behind.
Me:I’m working on it, Rick. I’ll have the first draft to you no later than the 16th.
Rick:That’s not going to change again, is it?
Me:It shouldn’t. I don’t have much to go before reaching the end, and I made some major progress yesterday.
Rick:Good. I’d hate to have to complain to Tracey again. They have a hard time finding and keeping good editors, but mediocre authors are a dime a dozen.
I slam my phone so hard on the counter the back of the case cracks. In any other situation this man might get fired, but being related to one of the publishers is the reason he’s gotten so many passes. This is another reason I want to go off on my own, but I’m not sure I have the energy for it and figuring out where to start is overwhelming.
Not responding back to his message, I take the case off my phone and pull up the internet browser to order new curtains as I push the spatula at my eggs. I searched high and low for my others when I first woke, trying to hurry and find them before Daniel got out of the shower. Where the hell are they, and if he moved them, why won’t he just tell me where they are and stop allowing me to question myself?
There were no signs he was lying when I asked about it, but he does have a great poker face. He had it on when I asked him about Jared too. I place my order, choosing a lighter color that’ll match my couches better, and then plate my food, carrying it to the bench outside. Sitting out here in the morning while the whole world is waking up is my favorite thing. The sky grows bright right above me, and the birds chirp loudly.
Neither distract me for long from the one person I need to keep my mind off. Those dark eyes flash in my mind, along with that cocky grin. When he comes back on Monday, will he take more of his clothes off? My breaths quicken, my pants growing tight. My sexual desires have been nonexistent ever since I started my new medicine and stressing over tighter deadlines. Daniel hardly touching me or initiating anything, because he doesn’t think I can handle too much physical activity, makes it easier for me to not think about it.
Last time we made love, he held me like I was made of glass, and when I begged for him to go harder it all ended. He stopped when I needed him to go faster and handle me a little more roughly. Him taking his time and keeping everything so routine no longer took me where I needed to go, making it harder for me to come.
Would Zavier give me what I asked him for? Would he shove me over one of the freshly built planter boxes, thrusting inside me so hard I’d feel like I was breaking in two?
“You’re too fragile. You can’t handle that right now.” Daniel’s words poison my fantasy, reminding me he’s the only person I should think about in that way. How can I, though, when getting that from him will never be possible.
Wait. Not yet. We can when you’re well enough.
Those are all words he’s been saying for the duration of our relationship, using them more and more. It makes me feel so weak and breakable. I hate it. He’s doing what he feels is best, and as much as I appreciate it, I also resent him for going overboard. I go back to thinking about how Zavier’s hand tugged hard on the measuring tape, and the way he lifted his body off the ground, flexing his muscled thighs so much they showed through his tight jeans. He moved up and down so effortlessly, going from kneeling to standing so quickly.
Stop. Get your mind right.You’re marrying Daniel. He’s what you want.
Those words only work for so long before the beautiful carpenter comes barging back into my mind, bulldozing the wall I try to hold between him and me. It’s because of the lack of attention from my fiancé lately. That’s all. He isn’t satisfying my need for affection and . . . and . . . something else inside me I’ve been shoving away ever since Daniel and I started dating. I’ve settled for what I was able to get from him, learning to let it be enough.
I’d convinced myself he touched me and held me enough. That was until my body envied the way Zavier’s arms tightened around himself while folding, or when his fingers accidently brushed over my skin. I felt starved for more than food when we last had lunch in the diner together.
Zavier never told me where to meet him today, and I’m about to make other plans for lunch when I notice a paper sticking up from where my jalapeños are. Taking a deep breath, I pluck the note from the pot and peel the creases apart.
My eyes scan the paper, reading the black inked words over and over. When did he leave this? Was it as he walked back into the house yesterday? What made him think leaving me a secret note was better than a text? This feels so sneaky and deceiving.
It’s also the most excitement I’ve had in a while, setting me on edge, and I go back to a question I had earlier . . . Was he here in my back yard last night? Did my body somehow feel him there, and that’s why it felt wrong when my fingers touched the lock, quickly falling away from it.
That’s crazy. I shut my eyes and my breathing shallows as I glance at the message he left me again.
