Page 132 of Perfect
I want to fix the mess I’ve made of her life, give her something back, make her happy however I can.
I have no idea what she sees on my face, but eventually her expression becomes exasperated, and she rolls her eyes, sighing and shaking her head.
“I’mfucking insane,” she mutters. What does that mean? She steps into me, grabbing my jaw hard in one hand and yanking my face down towards hers, and I stop breathing. She’s so close that I could kiss her, but I’m frozen as her eyes focus on mine for a long moment.
“Maybe,” she says slowly.“I’llthinkabout it.”
I can’t believe it. This can’t be happening. Thishasto be a dream, or another delusion, or something. She backs away from me and walks back to the stove, plating the French toast and speaking quickly, her voice shaking with anger.
“Regardless of whether or not I choose to give you a shot, everything goes. I mean it,Theodore,all of it. No stalking me, no following me, no watching me,nothing. Don’t eventhinkabout texting me. I will be looking for youeverywhere, and if I so much as see you at the grocery store while I’m there, I willfucking kill you. I’m pretty sure you’d just let me at this point.” That’s probably true.
She pushes a plate of French toast towards me, pointing at me with a fork angrily.
“You’reverylucky you’re good in bed. That is theonlyreason I’m even thinking about it.” I watch as she skates her teeth over her bottom lip because she’slying, and hope blossoms in my chest. She’s absolutely going to give me a chance.
“Sweetheart,” I reach out for her, but she shakes her head hard and flinches away from me.
“Don’t even fucking think about it. You need to earneverything, if I even feel like letting you.” She looks down at the plate of French toast and shrugs a little, her shoulders dropping. “Except this, I guess,” she says, her voice soft. “I already made it for you.” I blink at her, confused. She made itforme?
Alex, who staunchly refuses to do anything close to cooking, made me food.
I’m frozen to the spot as I watch her take her plate to the dining room and start to eat, frowning down at the plate angrily.
“I swear I used to be really good at this,” she says, almost to herself. I stare down at the plate of food she’s shoved towards me, taking a slow bite. The toast is a little too dark, she went heavy on the cinnamon, she drowned it in maple syrup, and she didn’t even sauté the bananas, but it’s fucking perfect.
It could be burnt to a crisp and still be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
I stay in the kitchen, eating slowly while I watch her stare out the window at the paling sky, her frustrated face becoming more illuminated as dawn creeps on.
She’s going to let me try, I’m fucking positive. She’ll let me try to give her what she needs, try to be what she needs, try to salvage the colossal fucking mess I’ve made. I don’t deserve her,but I’m going to try – right after I figure out whether or not this is happening.
I’m not entirely sure thisishappening.
I might need to talk to Dr. Mills.
Thatis going to suck.
***
We pack up and leave after eating. We don’t talk at all, and Alex barely looks at me. During the drive, we listen to a program on public radio about therapy programs for inmates, and Alex keeps shooting me an irritated and slightly amused look.
The closer we get to Astoria, the more nervous I get. When I follow her up to her apartment, my anxiety is so bad I’m on the verge of a panic attack.
I want this. I want her. I’m so lucky she’s evenconsideringgiving me a chance, but I don’t want to lose this access to her. Alex gives me a hard look, and I sigh and start to pull the small cameras down.
She’s looked for them before and never found them, so she follows me around, looking to see where I hid them, constantly asking me if there are any more. She only stops when I pull up the camera feeds on my phone, showing her there are only the ones in her office and the rec center left, which I tell her I’ll grab tomorrow.
I uninstall the hidden tracking apps on her phone, slip the microtracker out of the back, and go through her laptop and remove the programs I installed. She makes us some tea and sits down next to me, peering down at her laptop with mild curiosity as it reboots. I look at the tracking chip on the table and smash it with the edge of my empty mug.
“The little tracking chips? How many?” Her voice is suspicious, and my jaw clenches as I look at her.
“That’sgoing to take a while.” I get tweezers from her bathroom and grab my phone, starting to pull them out of hems and linings and shoes, breaking them as I go, leaving a growing pile on her dresser.
She leans against the door, watching me with raised eyebrows.
“You areterrifying, you know that? Youshouldstill be in prison,” she says, but there’s no heat to her voice. If anything, she’s teasing me. I rub the back of my neck, shame thick in my stomach.
“Yeah, I’m realizing that.”
