Page 7 of Every Silent Lie
“Wouldn’t want you to get attacked by any killer bubbles again, would we?”
My smile is small, definitely unseen. “Want to come in?” The question jolts me. What am I saying? I don’t want him to see my home. I find myself holding my breath as he slowly turns his eyes back onto me.
“I probably shouldn’t.”
“Don’t you trust yourself?”
“Not in the least,” he whispers, his gaze falling to my mouth. My lungs start to burn, my eyes on his mouth too.
And suddenly his lips are coming closer.
Closer.
I breathe out slowly, starting to shake, asking myself repeatedly what the hell I’m doing. What’s happening? How did we arrive at this intimate, close moment?
I close my eyes.
Yes, what are you doing, Camryn? This isn’t how you operate.
I come into myself and pull back, at the very moment Dec pulls away too. He glances away, his eyes squinting in silent contemplation. “I definitely don’t trust myself.” Two steps back puts more space between us, but I don’t breathe easy again. Nowhere close. “Goodnight, Camryn.”
“Goodnight, Dec,” I whisper.
His tall body turns, and he walks away, his gait smooth, his strides long but not fast. And when he reaches the end of my street, he looks back to find I haven’t moved a muscle. Stopping, his body slowly turns. And I’m holding my breath again, anticipating his next move, shaking where I stand. He starts coming back, and I inhale sharply, but when he gets halfway, he stops abruptly again. Then he takes a moment, thinks, watching me, while I wait, breathless.
Begging.
But he eventually backs up slowly, turns, as if fighting an unseen force, and walks away, rounding the corner. I catch a rake of his hand through his hair. Frustration? It’s the most emotion he’s shown since I encountered him in the hotel bar.
Exhaling, I lift my hands and watch as they tremble, clenching them into fists to try and stop it. I fail.
My legs shake as I take the steps up to the glass door, letting myself in and walking slowly down the corridor. As soon as I’m in my cold, clinical apartment, I strip and get in the shower, standing under the hot spray, letting the water pour down on me. It’s soothing, and it should help me get to sleep tonight.
If I can get his handsome face out of my head.
December 2nd
It’s baltic, the mixture of hot sweat and the chilly air burning my skin. My ears sting. My nose is running. My temples are pounding with a growing headache. They’re all typical winter running side effects. And I’m here for them.
My lungs now burning too, I push myself to the limit, sprinting the final stretch of pathway through the park, relishing the icy air on my numbing face. Every pound of my feet sends a vibration through my body, each one booming in my head. I can no longer feel my legs.
So I run faster.
My short, sharp, hot breaths hit the frigid air, forming temporary clouds before they dissolve, disappearing, being replaced by another. A stitch comes and goes. My eyes are glued to the last tree in the line of dozens down the path, the branches naked except for a kiss of frost.
The second I reach it, I stop dead in my tracks, folding over and bracing my hands on my knees, gasping down at the concrete, watching beads of sweat drip down. I try to control the air entering and leaving my body, feeling my heart pounding in my chest and ears as I check my watch, hitting End Run with a very trembly fingertip, my adrenaline rampant. And then as I straighten up, the nausea kicks in and my legs start to wobble too. “Jesus,” I whisper on a gasp, blowing out air and starting a steady jog out of the park, shaking my hands, trying to get some feeling back.
Once I make it to the exit onto the main road, I stop and take a moment, hands on my hips, panting up to the sky, still dripping wet, but the shakes are subsiding. I no longer feel sick. I think I’m past heart attack territory.
I shrug my way out of my running jacket and tie it around my waist, welcoming the freezing cold air on my clammy skin as I start to jog again, warming down, until I reach Pret. I grab a coffee and walk the final stretch home, slow and meandering, in no rush at all.
The old boy in the apartment next to mine is struggling to get his shopping trolley out the door when I make it back. “Here,” I say, holding the door open with my hip and pulling his trolley through.
“Very kind.” He holds the doorframe as he shuffles past, looking up and down my bare arms. “You’ll catch a chill, dear.”
“I’ve been running,” I say, as way of an explanation for my half-dressed state.
“Running?” He chuckles, hobbling on. “I’m lucky I can walk these days.” And as if to prove his point, he wobbles, making me jerk and reach for his arm. “See?”
