Page 37 of Corrupted Memories
Chapter 14
Gianna
Sebastian stayshome for a few days, lounging around with me in the penthouse. I’m not sure if he doesn’t trust me or wants to spend time with me. When we watch a movie in the theater, he moves past the folder without a word of acknowledgement, and I don’t question him about it. I miss the ease of our relationship, and I can’t help notice the absence of words once again from Sebastian. It’s like a lingering doubt that never goes away, no matter how many times I try to convince myself it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t want to hear how he feels about me, this is all just compliance in the form of a signed contract.
He usually orders food in or has prepared meals delivered and stored in our fridge. I had offered to cook, but he shot it down when I wanted to go to the grocery store, and I was unwilling tocompromise on getting it delivered. I prefer to pick out my perishable items myself, not trusting other’s judgments on what they deem good.
I’m just starting to feel cooped up when he shakes me awake early in the morning, asking if I want to eat with him before work. Half of me wants to decline, but I reluctantly get up and change into another hoodie with matching sweatpants.
He brings me to Valois, one of our favorite restaurants when we visited the city during college. I can’t believe it when he turns onto the restaurant’s street to park. I’d figured he would feel like this place is now beneath him as some millionaire hotshot.
“I missed this place.”
Sebastian sighs. “I figured.”
Smiling, I face him. “Still not the biggest fan?”
He shrugs, turning off the car and glancing over at me. “Their pancakes aren’t half bad. I may have come a few times without you.”
“Because you missed me?” The question is out before I can stop it.
God, Gianna. It doesn’t matter. How many times do I need to remind myself before it sticks? It’s a never-ending cycle of desperate need for any affection from a man I ran and hidfrom. I don’t even want to think about what trauma this behavior must stem from.
His icy eyes flare a bit before the stony mask I’m used to falls into place. “Something like that.”
It’s all he says before exiting the car, and I swallow down the emotion swirling in my throat, because it’s as much of a confession as I’ll ever get. I watch him walk around the car and open my door before I climb out, and now we’re staring at each other, only inches apart.
I wait for him to say something, anything. I’m not going to give him any indication that I’ve thought about him nearly every day we’ve been apart.
Every thought may not have been out of love, perhaps some out of terror, but thoughts nonetheless.
He leads me inside and I inhale, my body melting with the familiar aroma of breakfast. I could never tire of the scent.
“I wonder if your eyes have finally adjusted to the size of your stomach, or if I’ll have to finish your plates like before,” he teases.
I smile, my heart hurting at the reminder as we head to the buffet and grab trays. I load up as much as I can as Sebastian watches amused before hesitantly grabbing things for himself as I keep adding more to mine.
When we sit at our usual table, I swallow and resist the urge to feel under the wood to see if our initials are still there.
“Orange juice or coffee?” he asks.
“Juice. Can you also bring?—”
“A cup of water, I know.”
I bite my tongue as he moves without another word. Butterflies flutter in my stomach at the gesture. Jeremy and I didn’t go out to eat much, not with my anxiety. But we ate in enough times for him to know that I liked two drinks with every meal, and yet, he never remembered. It seemed so unimportant until Sebastian just showed me it wasn’t.
Exhaling a long breath, I put the boyfriendthat never wasout of my mind and focus on the food. I didn’t realize how hungry I am, especially this early in the morning. He returns, sets our drinks down, and sits across from me.
“Can I ask you something?” I ask, then take a sip of my orange juice. He watches me carefully as I pour syrup on my French toast before handing the bottle to him so he can drown his pancakes.
“You can ask me anything, but you may not like the answer,” he says after a moment.
“Why do you want kids so bad?”
His lips quirk in the corner, and I just know it won’t be a serious answer. “You can’t imagine us having a little Charlotte?”
My heart skips a beat at the name. A long time ago we’d played that game that long-term couples play of what you would name your kids. I wanted Charlotte for a girl so badly. Sebastian wanted a boy named Alexander.
