“Sophie’s Choice,” he said. “Another of my favorites. I think you’ll like it. But don’t expect to feel good after reading it,” he added with a smile.
“My favorite kind,” I laughed in return.
He stood, his arms supporting his weight as he leaned against the bookshelf. He stared at me for a moment longer than felt comfortable and I could sense the weight of his gaze as it traveled over my body. I stood from the chair.
“I should—” I said.
He grabbed my wrist lightly.
“Don’t,” he pleaded.
I looked up into his eyes. The blue seemed lighter, more like the sky, in that moment. He guided my hand up slowly and I felt myself bend to his will. I relaxed against his touch. He brought the inside of my wrist to his mouth. His breath fanned across the skin, hot and alive. He kissed me there and I felt the strength of will to leave that room evaporate out of my pores into nothingness. He could have led me into hell just then and I’d have gone willingly.
He moved his kisses down to the tips of my fingers and I traced his lips. His mouth parted and I stroked the side of his face, rough with stubble. His hand traveled up my arm to my shoulder and down my back. He pulled me into him, our bodies gently meeting between the back of the chair and the bookcase.
I pressed a hand against his chest and felt his heartbeat. I wanted to turn my head and listen to it. Instead, I kept my eyes locked on his. He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. The kiss turned into another, and another. Our hands searched for something to grip. Mine found his shoulders and his found my beltloops. He ground his hips against mine and I could feel him hard against me.
I broke away, breathless.
“We can’t—”
“I don’t care,” he said.
That was all it took.
We slept together that night. Or made love. Three times. On the desk, in the window, on the floor. Like two teenagers that couldn’t get enough of one another. And when it was over, I lay beside him and placed my head on his chest as I’d wanted to before that first kiss. I listened for his heartbeat as he stroked my bare shoulder.
Maybe it was the blood pounding in my own head, but I heard nothing.
BIRDIE
She wakes to the rhythmic throbbing of her left shoulder. It’s a reminder of what’s transpired in the last few days, and a searing notification that time is running out. Birdie reaches for her upper arm, but her hand makes it no higher than her elbow when pain radiates out from the wound like a collapsing star, blinding her. She moans in the dark room, light obscured by blackout curtains that Vanessa insisted on when she and Tom moved into the house. Something about headaches. For now, Birdie is grateful for them, unsure if she could tolerate the full blast of sunlight that no doubt beats down on the other side of that thin barrier.
Birdie’s hand falls back to her side and she worries at the knobby fabric of the knitted blanket that covers the rest of her body. Little nubs find their way between her fingers, giving her something to focus on for the moment. The tactile sensation is overwhelming, and she feels her pulse in her fingertips, each beat of her heart reminding her that infection is spreading.
She needs a doctor. A thought returns to her like a boomerang, thrown out a day earlier: she hasn’t felt the baby move. Its stillness worries her, bringing to mind images of stillbirth, and worse, her own death that seems somehow inextricably linked to the child’s.
Someone knocks on the door and Birdie attempts to sit up, but her body gives up on her before she can put most of her weight on her uninjured arm. She collapses back into the pillows as the door swings open. Vanessa.
She moves with a feline grace and shuts the door, sure to close it so softly that it makes no sound. No one knows she’s here.
“I came to check on you,” she pads on bare feet towards the bed and sits on the edge, her weight shifting the mattress enough that it tugs at Birdie’s wound. She whimpers. “Still in pain, I take it?” No false empathy colors Vanessa’s words.
“Yes,” Birdie croaks, barely audible. She tries to adjust herself and fails. Vanessa stands and reaches for Birdie, who recoils.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Vanessa laughs. “Why would I do that?”
Birdie can think of a hundred reasons—a thousand, even. Now, at this woman’s mercy, she regrets every time she crossed her—every time she said bitter and cruel things, every time she took Tom’s time, stolen from Vanessa—and hopes that Vanessa’s compassion will extend beyond the line where Birdie thinks it ends.
Vanessa reaches down again, and Birdie allows it this time. She readjusts the girl, helping her find a more comfortable position and Vanessa goes back to sitting on the edge of the bed.
“How are you?” Unlike her earlier inquiry, now Vanessa seems genuinely curious.
Suspiciously, Birdie answers.
“Fine,” she says. Her voice almost catches in her throat on the lie. She’s terrified.
“I’d wager to say that’s not true,” Vanessa ventures slowly, her eyes roaming the room. Birdie wonders if she’s searching for something to report back to Tom. Some way in which Birdie isn’t towing the line. Birdie’s eyes follow Vanessa’s, sweeping the room in search of any evidence that betrays what she feels in her heart.
Birdie wanted to leave before the shooting. She’d kept secret her desire to leave the ranch—to leave Tom—but once she became pregnant, it was an impossibility. Tom wouldn’t have let her leave any way but feet first.
Birdie says nothing
