I’m not sure if it’s my belly rumbling, or the butterflies, or a bit of both, but I think I love this man. It’s the most crazy stupid thing to be thinking in some stranger’s house while my ex-charity-caseworker stirs a pan of chicken soup, but it’s true.
If I’m honest – which I rarely am – I think I’ve loved Michael for months. I think I’ve loved him since the day he called the cops and argued with them that I could be telling the truth about my bruises.
I haven’t loved anyone since the Evans family threw me out all those years ago. I don’t think anyone’s loved me since then, either. Not any of the families I’ve been palmed off on, and definitely not Bill and Rosie. And not Eli, no matter what crap he comes out with when he wants me to do something for him. But here, now, I think Michael could love me one day. Maybe.
He looked for me.
He called me and left me messages.
He made me an icepack for my ankle and stopped me from falling.
I feel in a lump in my throat and I’m so scared it might turn into stupid tears that I pretend it’s a cough. Michael gets me a glass of water and that only makes it worse.
He’s about to step back to the pan when my hand moves on its own. I watch my fingers clasp around his wrist, and he freezes dead. He doesn’t even breathe. I’d feel it on my face if he did.
“Thank you,” I say, and my voice is thick with that stupid lump in my throat.
His wrist turns in my grip and his fingers take mine. I close my eyes to stop the tears and focus on how warm his hand feels.
“You’re welcome, Carrie,” he says, and that’s it. Just like that. Like it’s a simple answer to a simple thank you, when what I really want to say is that I need him. I want him. That I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted us to run away together.
He’s back at the pan before I can say one single word, let alone all the others I want to say.
I choke them down after the stupid lump in my throat.
Michael
Carrie devours her soup like a starving person. She dips the bread right into the bowl and I watch with fascination as she dips her fingers right in after it. She cleans the bowl, the spoon squeaking against ceramic as she scrapes up every last drop.
I could watch her forever, and it surprises me, because I don’t remember ever feeling like this about Molly – not even back in the early days when things were new.
Even with tangles in her hair and an obvious layer of grime on her skin, Carrie Wells is a beautiful creature.
I’ve seen plenty of teenagers grow into attractive young women and never considered any of them as anything other than wards in my care, but this girl is different. Everything about her is different.
She’s unusually quiet as she places the empty bowl at her side, eyes fluttering as she struggles to stay awake. She shouldn’t be here, and yet having her here feels ridiculously good. Maybe Jack is right and this is a midlife crisis. Maybe I’m just a stupid old idiot with a stupid infatuation, but it’s only now the panic of losing her has eased that I realise how tightly wound I’ve been these past few days.
“You should get some sleep,” I say and she nods.
She’s limp as I help her down from the side. Her eyes are closed all the way through the house and upstairs, her body nestled into mine, her head pressed against my shoulder as she limps along in whatever direction I guide her.
Jack’s house isn’t really set up for guests. Aside from the master bedroom, the other upstairs rooms are used for storage and laundry. The room I usually sleep in has a small single bed amongst a load of old suitcases. It does me just fine whenever I’m visiting, and I hope it’ll do just fine for Carrie.
“I should shower…” she mumbles as I ease her onto the bed, and no sooner she’s said it than she’s wriggling out of her jacket and the couple of layers underneath. My breath is shallow as I watch her strip down to just a cami top and underwear. She winces as her jeans catch on her ankle and I’m forced to drop to my knees and help them off. Sleepy hands rest on my shoulders. A thumb brushes my neck and it feels electric. I pull away before I run the risk of doing something despicable, and without a word she pulls up her knees and wriggles herself under the covers, shower seemingly forgotten.
Her hair is so dark against the white bedding, and her skin looks so much dirtier against the clean sheets.
“Where are you gonna sleep?” she asks.
“Downstairs,” I say. “I won’t be far.”
“You can stay…” she whispers. “There’s room for two.” She backs into the wall and pats the bed to prove her point, but I couldn’t.