Page 43 of Every Silent Lie
The rumble of the unspoken is starting to get too loud.
I sigh, caught between elation and despair, as I stand on the pavement watching him getting farther and farther away. The despair’s winning. I should be full of hope, clinging to it. But the moment he walks away like that, the loneliness returns. And that frightens me. Because I can’t control Dec. I can’t rely on something I’m not in control of.
I’m in control of the martinis. They’re solid, dependable. I’m in control of my career. I huff a little, correcting myself. I thought I was in control of my career. Thomas is squashing that notion more each day. But I can pull it back. I can drag Thomas into line.
Dec, though?
Does this have a shelf life? Should I depend on something that I can’t depend on?
I can’t afford to lose again. My heart won’t take it.
“Are you that numb you haven’t felt it yet?”
Detachment.
It’s safer.
Nothing can hurt you if you don’t let it close enough.
Problem is, Dec’s already close. Closer than I’m comfortable with. It’s easy to forget that when he’s saturating my senses with his beauty and cold gentleness.
Except . . . he keeps walking away from me.
December 9th
My legs work like pistons as I run through the park, the cold, gusting wind coming at me making me work harder.
Don’t get close.
Easier said than done when what you’re trying to avoid is the positive to your negative. The most powerful magnet. Except he walked away after kissing me. Will he call?
Don’t get close.
I growl under my breath, pumping my legs harder, faster, wanting to pound the conflict away. I don’t stop sprinting at the end of the park pathway. Not even when I approach Pret. Or when I make it back to Camden.
I keep running until I make it to my apartment, my lungs burning, my body dripping.
“Camryn, are you trying to run yourself to death?” Mr. Percival asks as I hang on to the railings that flank the path to our building, my breathing loud and strained. “My God, girl, you’re as red as a beetroot.”
I can’t even talk, unable to draw in air to get any words out. So I flap a hand, reassuring him I’m fine. That’s debatable. My heart’s booming in my ears, blood whooshing, making my hearing crackle.
My hands squeezing the icy, black iron spear tips of the bars, my arms braced, I lift my head, my face hot with the blood in my cheeks. “Morning,” I puff, my chest tight. Christ, am I going to have a heart attack? “I’m okay.”
He shakes his head, the wiry hair of both his eyebrows meeting in the middle when they pinch together. “You young folk,” he mutters, hobbling along with the help of his walking frame. “Obsessing about the extra pounds you’re going to put on over the holidays with all the mince pies and eggnog. We didn’t worry about that in my day.”
“Mr. Percival, please be careful.” I’m not operating on full steam at the moment, so there will be no dramatic dive to catch him if he tips over.
“Steady as a rock, me, dear.” He stops and lifts his walking frame off the ground, performing what I think are supposed to be chest presses.
“Except when you’re put on your arse by a Christmas tree.”
“Mitigating circumstances.” Slapping his gloved hands together, he rubs them and blows into them at the same time. “It’s chilly today.”
“Freezing.” I turn and lean against the railings, my legs like jelly, and reach up to pull my hair tie out. “Where are you off to?”
“To order the turkey. Ahead of the game, me, dear. You can’t be too careful. Last year, I was laid up with the flu and couldn’t get to the butchers until December sixteenth. I had to make do with a crown. There were no turkey sandwiches on Boxing Day, turkey curry on the twenty-seventh, or stew on the twenty-eighth for me, dear. I’m not making that mistake again.”
“That’s a lot of turkey. Who are you having over for Christmas, Mr. Percival?”
