Page 149 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
In the evenings, he comes to my dorm yet again, sometimes with food, other times insisting we cook together. The first few times, he wouldn’t let me lift a finger, but after enough protest, he finally relented.
After dinner, he takes charge of cleaning up, refusing to let me so much as touch a dish, while I curl up on the sofa in the living room. He joins me a few minutes later and turns on the TV, always choosing The Vampire Diaries.
He complains about Matt and his complete lack of purpose, it never fails to make me laugh.
Therapy, these past few weeks, has helped more than I expected. It’s becoming easier to spend time with Arlo without feeling suffocated—by guilt, or hurt, or anger, or all the tangled emotions that used to weigh on me.
I’ve forgiven him, even if I haven’t said the words out loud, mostly because I’m still afraid to.
He’s trying to give me the space I asked for, even if not entirely.
But I can see it, the way he’s becoming more restless with each passing day, barely holding himself together.
It’s almost amusing, really, because when it’s time for him to go back to his own room, I can see how hard it is for him to step into the corridor.
If he had it his way, I’d be in his bed every night, tangled in his arms until morning.
And maybe, if I’m honest with myself, a part of me wants that too.
It’s Saturday now. I’m sitting on the couch, the TV murmuring in the background, though I’m not really watching. An open book rests on my lap, the words blurring together. I haven’t turned a page in twenty minutes.
Arlo’s gone.
He said he had something to take care of, so he’ll be away for a couple of days. He took the late ferry last night, the one that crosses before midnight.
I tried not to ask questions, to act indifferent, but I think he saw straight through me. The smirk on his lips gave him away.
Now my dorm feels unbearably quiet.
I miss our mornings, the breakfast ritual, the way he somehow makes silence feel safe.
And I hate how dependent I’ve become on his presence. I need to get a grip.
I try to distract myself, which is how I end up with a book in hand, pretending to read. But even that reminds me of him. He always sits beside me when I do, quiet, scrolling through his phone.
I huff and close the book. My gaze catches on the diamond ring glinting in the light, pulling a reluctant smile from me. I trace the edge of the stone with my thumb…
A knock interrupts my thoughts.
I stand, set the book aside, and walk to the door. When I open it, Octavia is standing there, grinning ear to ear.
Her soft pink hair, falls in loose waves around her shoulders. She’s dressed in a knitted Fendi jumper, dark jeans, and heeled boots.
She breezes past me without waiting for an invitation, the faint scent of her perfume trailing behind her. I close the door and turn to face her.
She plants her hands on her hips. “Why on earth aren’t you ready?”
I blink. “Ready for what?”
“For leaving.”
“Leaving where, Octavia?”
Her grin widens. “Paris.”
I stare at her, certain I’ve misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”
She laughs, clapping her hands once. “We’re leaving in five minutes. Now do stop standing there and move.”
