Page 21 of Unwrap Him

James has been outside for hours.

I think he’s probably shoveled the driveway six times by now. And it’s still snowing, so he just keeps redoing it.

Avoiding me.

It’s obvious, and I fucking hate it.

I tried really hard this morning to forget about my unfortunate… sleep-blowing. As much as I don’t want to forget about it, I have to. The only way we’ll be able to survive this is by pretending it never happened.

Sure, it’ll kill me inside to do that, slowly and painfully, like a withering disease. But I’m already sick as it is… Wicked and damned, lusting after the man who raised me, like some kind of heathen.

What’s the alternative, anyway? I can’t lose my father figure…

He’s all I have. If he ends up hating me because of this, I’ll cease to exist.

I woke up on the couch at six in the morning, alone. No hope of playing that whole thing off as a dream… Not with the ache in my jaw, and the taste of him still lingering on my tongue.

I took a quick shower and immediately launched into my default distraction; baking.

I definitely went overboard, but I couldn’t help it. In order to clear my mind, I went on autopilot, baking and decorating every single sweet known to man. Cookies, brownies, and cupcakes galore. It worked for a while, but as soon as James came downstairs, it became clear our tryst wouldn’t be swept under the rug.

Opening presents with him felt normal, but the whole time he was looking at me differently. With this simmering shell-shocked hopelessness in his eyes, and an aura of dubious vexation surrounding him so thickly in the air I could almost taste it.

The guilt that settled in my gut like a brick has been there since. I fucked everything up. My secret obsession somehow turned into action last night, and now I’m stuck waiting for him to either lash out and disown me, or worse.

What if we remain in this tense and mortifying purgatory forever?

I’ve been trying to busy myself with more cooking, starting on dinner, though it’s only four in the afternoon. Still, I have to do something with my hands. I have to keep moving, and working in the kitchen is really the only option I have.

Instead of turkey, I’m making a roast chicken, stuffed with my homemade cranberry cornbread stuffing, and some sides. Mashed sweet potato casserole, beet salad, asparagus. It’s a whole thing.

I’m flitting about, diligently, though my mind remains outside. Out in the freezing cold where my guardian is risking hypothermia just to avoid me. I really want to bring him something hot to drink… It’s eighteen degrees outside, and he’s been out there for hours.

Awkward or not, I’m worried about him.

But I just keep myself focused on my tasks. Once everything is in the oven, I feed the wood stove and toss a couple more logs on the fire in the living room.

By the time James comes back inside, it’s dark out. I’m on the couch, reading, my eyes sticking to the words on the page, the ones I’ve read five times without having absorbed a single morsel of the story.

Using my peripheral, I see him stomp the hall, listening to the sounds of him shedding his boots and wet outerwear. My stomach is in my throat, heart rate steadily increasing as I hear him rummaging in the kitchen.

And then I feel him approaching, entering the living room with a few clunky footsteps. My gaze lifts as he sidles up to me, arm extended, holding out a mug. I take it, without words, peering down at the hot cocoa with a few little white marshmallows floating at the top. He has one for himself, and I try not to actively watch him as he takes a sip, wandering over to the fireplace.

With his back to me, I can see how bunched up he is, shoulders tense, rigid in his stance. Closing my eyes for a moment, I take a deep breath and hold it.

I have to fix this. I have to do something, anything to placate him. To let him know that last night was a fluke, and it meant nothing.

Even if it’s the furthest thing from the truth.

Taking a sip of my cocoa, I place the mug on the side table by the couch. “I would’ve gotten that for you…”

He doesn’t respond. I can’t see his face, but from the way he’s just standing there, warming himself in front of the fire, I can barely even tell if he heard me.

So I decide to keep going; keep trying to bring back the normal. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

“Not hungry,” he grunts, the second the last word leaves my lips.

“That makes no sense,” I argue. “You haven’t eaten all day and you were just outside working for five hours. You need to eat.”

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