Four a.m.
The time stamp marks my first day of hell.
Not only that, I’m fairly certain she’s freaking out.
Merde. Shit.
I hoped she would sleep through the night, but I knew better. Jet lagged from a thirty-six-hour trip, I passed out before we had a real conversation, went practically comatose before I could give her a single explanation of what kept me away. Briefly, I recall she changed into head-to-toe flannel pajamas while I was toweling off. This detail I remember because I found it amusing that she would go to such lengths to make sure I knew she wasn’t going to reward me for returning—with her body. It didn’t stop her at all from eye-fucking me when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I’m sure she usually wakes early to open her café, but it’s still too early for her to have gotten enough sleep. But I slept like a rock in those hours, better than I have in years because I was in her bed. I know she hasn’t rested for the same reason.
Because of me and my grand entrance back into her life.
I may have gotten my foot in the door, but she’s still got her hand on the knob, ready to slam it with me on the other side if I fuck up. And I’m off to an amazing start.
I groan in frustration as Beau continues to shriek at me in what seems to be a canine declaration of territorial war until finally, I bark back.
“Putain, tais-toi!” Shut the fuck up! Immediately, Beau goes silent, head cocked, beady black eyes questioning the authority in my tone.
“Couché.” Get down. Beau obeys without issue. He’s got the simple commands down pat. Commands he understands clearly, in French.
The pointy-eared dog bounces around my heels as my eyes adjust to the dark. Though I’m anxious to get to her—wherever she may be—I can’t help but glance around her bedroom out of curiosity. This room far different than the one we got acquainted in. The room in her father’s home where I manipulated her, fucked her, damaged her before I began to worship her, love her.
She said her place wasn’t much, but every part of the space has been touched somehow by color, inspiration, or houses some sort of creature comfort.
It’s as if she’s carefully designed every room in this house both as sanctuary and proof of her evolution. I can see it, all the subtle pieces of her in this house, in the artwork, in her choices.
Turning on a mosaic-colored Tiffany-style reading lamp on her repurposed desk, I sift through some hardbacks she has yet to shelve and eye a few of her handwritten notes next to a stack of bills, one a to-do list.
Organize a Thanksgiving food drive. （Drop at Meggie’s）
Join the Chamber of Commerce.
Take a cooking class?
Hot Yoga?
Girls’ Night with Marissa?
Book Club?
Entertain Mr. Handsome?
I tame the surge of fire that threatens and decide not to start our morning conversation with ‘Who the fuck is Mr. Handsome?’
Everything about my doghouse predicament has me batting away my natural instincts to dominate, so I can make peace with her before I declare any sort of territorial war. And by war, I mean the full-fledged battle to make fucking sure we do everything imaginable to retrieve what we were beneath the ruins of our last one.
Perturbed by what I’ve discovered, I make my way toward the kitchen in search of her. When I find it empty, my unease kicks up, but I can’t help my grin at the sight of the French press sitting on the counter. And that’s when my chest begins to ache due to the double-edged sword that is my situation.
I might be here, with her, but not in the way I want to be.
Patience is crucial in winning her back, but also my Achilles’ heel.