Page 45 of When Sinners Fear
I turn for the stove, as she pulls a chair out to sit. “I don't like anyone in my house but me.”
“Oh. Right.”
Breakfast is eaten in near silence; bacon and pancakes, as if that will somehow right some of the wrongs I’ve done to her. I don’t hate myself for any of it, but I do have this underlying sense of hatred at my core about guilt and blame. It eats further into me with every bite of food she takes, making me question whether looking at her, or even being near her, is good for either of us. What I’ve done to her is no different than what I do every damn day in reality. It’s who I am. I don’t need any overthought on the moralistic principles of my being.
“Why do you know poetry?” she asks, quietly.
I drain the last of my coffee, too focused on the bruise on her cheek.“Photographic memory.”
She puts her cutlery down, having only eaten half her food. “Yes, but using it to memorise poetry is something only those interested in poetry would do. The man I’ve known the last however long isn’t the type of man I would align with poetry.”
“I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is madness – the madness of a memory which busies itself among forbidden things. That's also Poe.” I stand and take my empty plate to the counter, lighting a smoke soon after. “Poetry suits the man you’ve come to know very well. He lives it.” I look her over. “Eat the rest of your food.”
“I'm not sure I can.”
“You can, and will. Eat.” She nods and starts eating again. “Mariana will be here soon with some clothes. Going home in my shirt isn’t going to work.”
She stares at the table rather than me, fork hovering. “I don’t know what I’m going to tell them about where I’ve been.”
“Tell them the truth. You were kidnapped. They let you go.”
“Just like that? They'll need more and I’m not sure… My mother doesn’t need this burden.” My teeth grind my instant annoyance down, as she starts trying to work her way through this. I’m not ready to deal with it, nor do I care all that much about her mother’s illness. “She’s dying, and this might be enough to–”
“Not my problem.”
“What?”
I plant my hands on the countertop, spread wide, and let my face flatten enough to let her know this is all done. “Peyton, whatever we’ve been is done and over. The last thing I give a damn about is some over-emotional problem to deal with on someone else’s behalf. You’re free. You’re alive. Go live your life rather than wallow in your family’s self-pity.” She looks shocked, enough so that she stands and pushes the chair back.
“That’s how you feel?”
“I don’t feel. Anything. I’m a pragmatist. Shit happens. We live, we die. I just helped you live a while longer. Do yourself a favour, go enjoy it and stay away from men like me.”
The alarm bleeps, telling me someone’s just entered the driveway. I look straight at the monitor, checking who it is. Lexi. Looks like Dante couldn’t find enough balls to phone his sister after all. “Your clothes are here. Go shower if you need to.” She just stands there, staring at me with some expression of grit and determination brewing. My brow arches, waiting.
“That is the meanest bunch of lies I have ever heard. You’re not like that.”
“Have a look at yourself in the mirror. I did all of that to you. I can assure you, I am that callous.” I walk out from behind the counter. “Remember it, because if I have to remind you, I can guarantee you won’t enjoy it.”
“I didn’t enjoy it the first time around!”
“So why are you even speaking to me? Go.”
Her mouth opens, and then she just turns and heads for the main door rather than bother anymore. She runs straight into a slow-paced, pristine Lexi, entering with some suit carriers over her shoulder, and scoots around her out into the grounds.
“Problem?” Lexi asks, as she puts a large bag on the floor.
“I need her dressed and gone.”
“Why?”
“Not now, Lexi.” I sit, fucking exhausted. “I don’t need the fucking hassle of more emotional diatribe.”
She chuckles, drapes the suit carriers on a chair, and heads outside at a leisurely pace. It’s not long before she’s back with Peyton following, and they’re heading to the bedroom. About thirty minutes later Lexi’s back in the main lounge and watching me closely. I don’t give her a minute to talk about anything. I’m not in the right frame of mind to talk about shit that is done and over. Especially not to someone who knows nothing of what happened there.
“She’s pretty. Or will be now she’s covering those bruises.” I frown and head out onto the deck slowly, refusing to acknowledge anything about Peyton anymore, let alone the bruises I put on her. I just need her gone. Better for her, better for me. Shame of it is, Lexi follows me and leans on the door jam, arms folded and a wide smile on her mouth. “Abel was an asshole to me at first, too.”
I’m not explaining anything. I shouldn’t have even told Dante last night. It happened to Peyton, it’s up to her who she tells. “This isn’t that.”