Page 30 of Love Marks

Don’t think about that.

Suppressing memories that threaten to break through, I say goodnight to my mom and hide in my room for the rest of the night.

The thought of seeing Wesley tomorrow hangs over my head. I have no idea what I’m going to say to him. Should I apologize? No — I can’t apologize. He’ll take that as an admission of guilt.

If anything, he should be apologizing to me!

He doesn’t even have any evidence! He’s just basing his accusations off assumptions. Where is the jury of my peers? Where’s the court-appointed lawyer to defend me? Nope, no sixth amendment here. Wesley has decided that he’s judge, jury, and executioner.

I toss and turn in bed and hardly get any sleep. By the time my alarm clock goes off, I’ve managed maybe three hours. As if this day weren’t going to be bad enough, I’ll have to face Wesley looking and feeling like a zombie. I somehow manage to shower, get dressed, and get to the train on time. The last thing I need is to show up late today.

Turns out it doesn’t matter. When I get to the penthouse, it’s empty.

“Hello? Mr. Marks?” I call out.

Silence. Nobody is home.

It doesn’t stop there. For the rest of the week, when I show up for work and all day while I clean, Wesley is nowhere to be found. I hate that I’m curious about where he is and his sudden departure. Without him around, things are…well, boring.

I think he must be deliberately ignoring me. Why else would he suddenly disappear from his own apartment? I stew on that for about thirty minutes before realizing my ego is clouding my judgement. It’s silly of me to think that our disagreement would run this man out of his own home. He must just be busy.

Finally, after almost four days of no-contact, I hear his voice from his office. The sound of it engages my whole body. My heart is racing and my eyes dart around the apartment for an escape route. I’m keyed up like I’m preparing for a fight. I tiptoe closer to his office, realizing the door is slightly ajar.

“Hey, hey. Don’t say that.” Wesley’s soft voice is barely audible from here. “I hate to hear you like this”

Whoa.

My heart drops. He sounds completely different. His voice is soft and cajoling, like the way you’d speak to an injured animal. He sounds…vulnerable.

“I told you, everything’s going to be fine, Mom. Just please don’t cry.”

His voice is tired now and he almost sounds on the verge of crying himself. I can imagine exactly what he looks like right now. Leaning backwards in his chair, running his hand through his hair in frustration. The image jolts me in my place and I suddenly feel awful listening to this private conversation.

What the hell am I doing? Snooping around, exactly as he expects me to?

I flee from the hallway and back to the kitchen, my stomach churning. I have to wait for the delivery drop off this evening and make dinner, otherwise I’d leave right now.

I was planning on whipping up something fast and easy, but I feel the sudden urge to do something special. My mom is babysitting tonight for the downstairs neighbors, so I’m in no real rush to get home. Rummaging through the kitchen, I decide to go for a three-course meal of shrimp ceviche, glazed pork chops, and a chocolate caramel torte. I work quickly, throwing together the salad and glazing the pork chops. The delivery arrives and I pop the torte in the oven.

It’s a whirlwind of an evening and I lose track of time entirely. It’s almost 8 o’clock when I’m putting the finishing touches on the torte. I’m practically salivating over it, proud of my work. The kitchen is a mess, so I throw everything in the dishwasher and wipe down the counters, doing my best to leave it in fine condition. I’ll clean the rest tomorrow.

“What are you still doing here?” Wesley’s harsh voice pipes up from behind me.

“Sorry. I lost track of time with dinner. I’m almost done,” I reply, tucking the rag into one of the drawers and untying my apron.

His gaze moves to the feast sitting on the dining room table and he stares at it.

“What is this?” He asks, his brow furrowed.

“Dinner.”

His jaw ticks.

“I can see that. What’s with the three-course meal? Is that cake?” He points to the dessert.

“It’s a torte,” I reply, a little indignant. He’s the fancy one. He was probably raised with eight different types of forks — can’t he tell the difference between a cake and a torte?

He nods and still stares down at the meal in front of him. I start to back up slowly. Any sudden movement might anger the beast.