Page 82 of Completing Her

“You were listening?”

“No, Damien told me. You did good.”

I sat down. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“You have to act normal. Like you are angry. What would you normally do?”

“Clean the apartment.”

“Okay. You clean one room at a time. Open blinds, so if he is looking, he sees you. I will go in the other room.”

“Okay.” I stood. “Was Damien all right when you talked to him?”

He patted my arm. “No worries, girl. He knows, eh?”

I sighed, looking around the room. It felt strange to be back here. I had never loved the place, but it was my home. Or at least, I thought it was. It was odd how at home I felt at Damien’s. It felt right being there with him. Here, I felt like a stranger, even though the things around me were mine.

My phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. I answered Deb’s call, my melancholy evident in my voice.

“Hey, Deb.”

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

I couldn’t tell her, so I pretended. “Nothing. Just one of those days.”

“Ah, okay. So, Stew and I were wondering about doing dinner on Monday?”

“Oh.” I paused. “Can I call you back tomorrow to confirm?”

“Everything okay?”

“I just have to check with Damien.”

“Oh, you’re not with him?”

“No, I’m cleaning my apartment right now. He’s, ah, he’s busy today.”

“Okay. Call me later and confirm. Stewart has reservations at Rustic Alley for seven. If you can’t go, we’ll do another night.”

“Okay, sounds good.”

I hung up and shook my head. I was acting as if Damien and I had really had a fight. Broken up. I was being silly. I tossed my phone to the table, opened the blinds, and got to work.

* * *

My apartment gleamed, and my body ached. I looked around, satisfied. I had scrubbed every inch. Opened my windows with the music playing. Made sure I could be seen. Egan stayed in the next room, occasionally making a comment, but stayed busy with a sketchbook in his hand. Finally done, I closed the windows again, shutting the blinds, and turning on the small air conditioner. I showered, changed, and sat down. Egan was across from me, his head still bent over his work.

“What are you drawing?” I asked.

“Something for Damien.”

“Ah.”

I had discovered he was a man of few words.

“Are you hungry?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I could eat.”

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