“Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll check the closet.”
Ethan kisses me on the top of my head. “Good. And after you find something warm to wear, we can go downstairs and have lunch.”
“Not bologna again. Please.”
He flashes a crooked smile. “I saw turkey too.”
I am going to be so sick of cold cuts by the time we get out of here.
Ethan returns to his laptop while I walk down the hall to the master bedroom. I will take one sweater from her closet and that’s it. And I’m just borrowing it. I’m going to put it back before we leave here. In the exact condition I found it.
When I return to Dr. Hale’s walk-in closet, it’s even more stuffed with clothing than I remember. I have a lot of clothes—I’m not going to lie—but her clothes are classy. Everything she wears is at the height of fashion. And not just that—she doesn’t own anything casual. I looked through some of her drawers last night and it seemed like the lady didn’t even own a pair of blue jeans.
I would wager that there isn’t one piece of clothing in this closet that cost less than two hundred dollars.
I had intended to find something in the back of her closet that she rarely wore. But my attention goes back to that white cashmere sweater I had been slobbering over last night. I love cashmere. I mean, everyone does. What sort of freak doesn’t like cashmere?
And the sweater is so white. Like unblemished snow.
I grab the sweater and pull it off the hanger. I throw it over my head, almost groaning in ecstasy at how nice the fabric feels against my skin. I love cashmere.
Okay, I didn’t do exactly what I said I was going to do. But it’s almost a crime for a sweater like this to be sitting in a closet, never worn. It’s begging to be worn. Crying to be worn.
And it’s not like Adrienne Hale is going to come back here and want to wear the sweater, for God’s sake.
Chapter 28
ADRIENNE
Before
I watch Luke expertly chopping vegetables on my kitchen counter. I might be hopeless in the kitchen, but he’s an excellent cook. We still get takeout plenty, but he likes to cook for me on the nights he’s here. Which is becoming more and more frequent.
Luke and I have been dating for four months. It’s a record for me. After a month of dating, my anxiety abated to the point where I finally consented to let him spend the night. And now he’s here three or four nights a week.
There are ground rules of course. He has to stay on his side of the bed—no cuddling in the middle of the night. And if I’m not feeling in the mood to have company, he has to leave without argument. The first month, that happened as often as not. But I haven’t asked him to leave in weeks.
The truth is, I’m growing to enjoy sharing a bed with him. On the nights he’s at his own apartment, I look at the empty spot on what has now become his side of the bed （the left）， and I feel an ache in my chest.
“It smells delicious,” I comment.
Luke picks up a long-handled spoon and stirs the sauce that has been simmering on the stove for the last twenty minutes. He’s sexy when he’s cooking, maybe because he’s so skilled at it. “It’s a new recipe. You’re going to love it.”
“I’m sure I will. I love everything you make.”
And I love you.
The thought pops into my head against my will. Those three words keep cropping up and taunting me. I can’t say that to him. First of all, he hasn’t said it to me. And even if he did, I still don’t think I could say it. I’m not even sure it’s true.
I’ve never told a man that I loved him before. It seems odd, I’m sure, given my age. Men have told me they loved me before, and I have not said it back—men, compared with women, are statistically much faster to express sentiments of love, despite stereotypes to the contrary. I have counseled patients on this before, and I always advise them you should never say “I love you” to another person unless that is what you’re feeling.
I have never told a man that I loved him because I have never felt that I loved any of my prior significant others.
If I spoke to a therapist about it, I’m sure they would have a lot to say about the lack of intimacy in my life. I was never close with my parents. My father was a mail carrier, and my mother worked as a receptionist. Neither of them attended college, much less obtained multiple advanced degrees. They never quite knew what to make of me.
When I was younger, I was convinced I had been switched with another child at birth. Or perhaps adopted, based on the fact that my mother was told in her twenties that she would never bear children, and I was conceived as a miracle baby. I dreamed about someday being reunited with my biological parents, who would finally understand me.