Page 49 of Devil

That would be ideal, right? Except now that I’ve imagined a future where Busy is taken care of and the weight of her life isn’t laid across my back, I can’tnotimagine it. I don’t want Bell to break our deal even if it still terrifies me.

And, a small voice says in the back of my mind, it was nice to feel wanted. The frantic look in his eyes in the back of the truck, the shaking hands. The thrill of being touched. The warmth of his skin.

It would be ridiculous, though, to get used to that. I’m shy and worn and graying, and he’s the dazzling talent who could be mayor one day.

Dinner should be delivered to the warehouse any minute now,he texts.Don’t worry about dishes.

You don’t have to do that. I can just eat something here

.

Then your dinner will get cold outside the front door.This is sent with an emoji shrug.

I go to the front door to see a paper bag left on the stoop. It’s from a restaurant I don’t recognize, but when I open the bag in the kitchen, I find a spiced chicken soup and several soft rolls. He’s feeding me like I’m sick, which I guess I am.

I eat it all. I think I’ve eaten more in the last two days than I have in the last seven days combined, but it tastes so good, and not having to cook it myself…

Drowsiness creeps up on me after I clean up dinner, and I take advantage of the waterproof bandages on my leg to shower. I fall asleep in Bell’s bed afterward, even though it’s barely dark, and sleep straight until morning, oblivious to everything but the way his scent lingers in the room.

22

BIRDIE

The next fourdays are the same but worse, because by the time I wake up, Bell is gone and his side of the bed is unrumpled. He texts in the morning to make sure I’ve taken my antibiotic and inform me that there’s lunch in the fridge to be heated up. It’s only the food in the fridge that lets me know he’s been home at all, the sticky notes with my name, strange ghosts of the slips that once accompanied pomegranates left on my desk.

At night, he sends dinner, different things every night. He never asks me what I’d like, but he’s eerily good at guessing. Shrimp but not salmon. Chicken but not beef. Some kind of bread or roll or biscuit with every meal.

My leg slowly starts to feel better, is able to bear weight without twinging, and my shoulder doesn’t hurt at all. I’ve become diurnal since he took me from the farm. I’m eating and sleeping so much that I feel guilty about it. I don’t know why.

I finish the dresser, and the pieces are now hanging in the studio while the industrial fans coax the topcoat into a hard, dry layer.

I dare to take my healing leg on a walk and stroll around the brick-and-concrete maze and down to the train tracks by the river. I stand in the heat and wonder why Bell is willing to house me, feed me, and give me a studio full of light and wood but not willing to have sex with me.

To fuck me, as he would put it.

On the fifth day, keys appear on the kitchen counter with a note. The note explains that he’s bought a vehicle for me to use while I live with him because driving “that rusted death trap” back and forth to Buddy’s is out of the question. He’s already covered the insurance; I can cancel the policy on my car for now since it won’t be needed.

I shouldn’t feel awkward about accepting this, since I can give it back when our year is over.It’s really more like a company car, a perk, when you think about it, Birdie. A phone too is on the counter. An expensive one with a good plan. I’m welcome to keep my old one as long as I need to transition, Bell says, but I can shed that expense as well if I want.

I consider leaving both items on the counter, ignoring them like he’s ignoring me. But God help me, there is a girlish flutter in my chest as I consider them. Not the lavishness of the gifts themselves but that he hasn’t forgotten me, that it doesn’t seem like our deal is being unstruck. He wouldn’t invest in a car or a phone if he planned to get rid of me. I think.

And, well, this is the bitter truth of my circumstances, but I can’t afford to say no. My pride apparently has a price.

My car really cannot be trusted. My phone is so old that the battery only holds a charge for about an hour.

I text him to thank him.

Thank you for the car and for the phone. I don’t know what to say.

My new phone lights up with a call, and I see that he’s already put himself in as a contact.Ry, with a selfie for his profile picture. I have to scan the unfamiliar options on the screen for a minute, but I finally manage to answer the call, and his face appears, a dimple already in his cheek.

“Do you like your presents?” he asks. There’s a glass wall behind him, and the exposed ducting and rafters of a trendy workspace beyond that. The lack of noise and closed-in sound of his voice makes me think he’s got an office of his own.

“Um, yes. I mean, I haven’t gone outside to see the car yet, but I really appreciate it. It’s very helpful, and I’m not—” I feel ridiculous. “I should say no, but I’m not.”

The dimple gets deeper. “Good girl,” he says, and that thing flutters in my chest again.You’re thirty-six, I remind myself.Stop it.

“Go outside,” he says. “I want you to see it.”