Sheltered(43)

She lay as still as she could on the bed, eyes so closed they almost trembled with the effort, and prayed there would be no and then what.

“Eve?”

She came close to shuddering at the sound of his voice. Kept it in by the skin of her teeth, kept her eyes tightly closed and her breathing so steady and regular. She’d done it before, after all. She’d pretended to be asleep for all sorts of reasons, though she had to admit—none of them had felt quite as life and death as this.

Usually it was about a book she’d been sneakily reading, or maybe just plain old unwillingness to talk with the man who’d slapped her an hour before. But here, now, everything about him suddenly seemed life-threatening.

The smell of his cologne creeping through her body. The sound of his breathing, like some slumberous, too-heavy animal. And then finally his voice again, piercing through the darkness.

“Eve?” he said, but he wasn’t really asking. He knew, he knew. He’d guessed immediately, and now came the part she hated the most.

The pretending game, wherein he acted as if he didn’t know what she’d done wrong, but secretly did. And then he simply waited like the real Gollum haunting her, for her to slip up.

It didn’t surprise her when something cool and wet slid sideways over her face. The tension was just too much, and it got steadily worse the longer he remained at the end of her bed, saying her name over and over again.

She thought of Van adding the i and the e to the end of Eve, and that helped. But it wouldn’t be of any use to her at all, if her father actually killed Van. He could do it, she knew. Van was big, but her father was bigger, and though Van looked fierce, he wasn’t at all.

His face never got so red with anger she thought he might burst. He never screamed or yanked on her, or tried to suffocate her with a dishcloth, because she’d forgotten to wring it out again.

But she knew that in this world, those sorts of people—the ones who did terrible things like that, without even thinking about it—always won. They did, they did, and for a moment the unfairness of this idea struck her so hard she couldn’t breathe. Another tear slipped out—one her father would undoubtedly notice—while every fiber of her being willed him to just go.

Though it came as a thunderous shock when he actually did. On the third non-response to her name he simply turned and walked out of her room, then shut the door behind himself, as calmly as you please.

Leaving her in some sort of strange tension vacuum.

She couldn’t breathe out for the longest time. Every muscle remained on edge, just waiting for the surprise finish—though none came. He hadn’t guessed. He didn’t know. It was okay for her to start shaking with relief now, despite the very real problem that still presented itself.

Namely—how the fuck was she supposed to get Van out of here? What was she even meant to say, to something like this? Oh hey, sorry my life’s so fucked up you have to hide in a closet, as though I’m twelve years old. Do you think you could possibly jump out of my bedroom window now?

Her heart carried on thumping wildly when she finally crossed the carpet to the closet, though she suspected it wasn’t fear anymore. It was embarrassment, just horrible, soul-crushing embarrassment. They’d done all of those things and fallen asleep together like normal people, and now he’d had to hide in a closet, naked.

Though of course he wasn’t naked when she finally opened the door. And even better, he didn’t look as though he found this situation the least bit humiliating. He looked pissed with many capital Ps, and like maybe he wanted to go downstairs and do what he’d said he wanted to.

I want to spit on the guy, he’d said, without even using something like your father or Mr. Bennett. Just the guy, as though the man did not deserve a title.

The thought made her heart pound harder. It made her feel sharp and sick, all at the same time, and then he just put a hand around the back of her neck and drew her close. Held her tight, for nowhere near long enough.

Kissed her, kissed her.

“I have to go now,” he said, with those good gentle hands still on her face and his mouth so near to hers. It sounded like something she almost wanted to hear, when he did it like that.

“How?” she asked, but most of her suspected the answer. He actually and really was going to go out the goddamn window, and oh she didn’t like that idea at all. Two stories up and nothing but the concrete surrounding the pool below. “You’ll break your neck if you—”

“I’m six foot five, Evie. I can practically touch your window from the ground—I’ll be fine.” He hesitated then. Closed his eyes briefly, as though building up to something. “But I want you to know something first, before I do this fucked-up thing.” Another pause, this time longer. More painful. “I think this is crazy.”