Page 61 of The Wrong Man

My mind keeps drifting back to the kitchen. To flour-dusted cheeks and nervous rambling and the way Dylan’s voice went high and squeaky when he told me not to look at him. To the warmth of standing beside him at the counter, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. To his hands moving with practiced confidence through dough, the only time I’ve seen him without that undercurrent of anxiety.

He was beautiful today. Not in the way I noticed when he first arrived, the objective assessment of pleasing features and attractive coloring. This was something else. Something about the way his whole face changed when he talked about baking. The way his eyes lit up when the scones came out of the oven. The pride in his voice when he instructed me on the proper application of cream and jam.

I roll onto my side and punch the flat pillow into a more acceptable shape. It doesn’t help.

The runt scone. That’s what I keep coming back to. That misshapen little thing, smaller than the others, made from the scraps. I claimed it because it looked lonely, I said. We misfits should stick together.

What possessed me to say something like that? I don’t say things like that. I don’t make whimsical observations about baked goods having feelings. I am Dante, the monster in the basement, the man who makes other men scream. I am not the sort of person who adopts the runt scone because it needs me.

Except apparently I am. Apparently Dylan has turned me into someone who says ridiculous things about pastry and means them.

I stare at the water stain on the ceiling and try to remember the last time someone made me laugh. A real laugh, not the cold, performative thing I sometimes use in my work. The answer comes back empty. Years, probably. Maybe longer. Maybe never, not like the sound that escaped me when Dylan described his first scones as weapons that nearly cracked his aunt’s mug.

It wasn’t even that funny. It was a silly little story about failed baking. But something about the way he told it, self-deprecating and warm and completely without guile, loosened something in my chest that I didn’t know was tight.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars.

This is dangerous. I know it’s dangerous. I’ve survived this long by keeping myself separate, contained, untouchable. Emotions are vulnerabilities. Attachments are pressure points. The moment you care about something, you’ve given your enemies a weapon to use against you.

But I can’t seem to stop.

When I close my eyes, I see him. Dylan with flour on his face, looking mortified. Dylan pressing his hands against his cheeks and smearing white powder everywhere. Dylan glancing at me over his shoulder with that expression of barely contained panic that somehow manages to be endearing rather than pathetic.

He’s so different from anyone I’ve ever known. So soft and sweet and completely unsuited to the world I inhabit. He should have been destroyed by what I put him through. Should have emerged from that experience hardened, bitter, full of justified hatred.

Instead he’s making me scones and teaching me about the proper temperature of butter.

I don’t understand him. I don’t understand any of this.

The flat is too quiet. Too empty despite the fact that it contains another person for the first time ever. I can hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the distant rumble of traffic. Normal sounds. Mundane sounds. But underneath them, a silence that feels suffocating.

Is he sleeping? Is he comfortable? Is the pneumonia truly gone, or is it lurking in his lungs waiting to return?

The questions circle through my mind like sharks, relentless and toothy. I tell myself it’s practical concern. He was very ill. Pneumonia can recur if not properly treated. It would be irresponsible not to monitor his recovery.

But that’s not why I’m lying here thinking about him. That’s not why my chest feels tight and my thoughts keep spiraling back to the same moments, the same images, the same inexplicable warmth.

I give up on sleep and swing my legs off the sofa.

The flat is dark, but I know the layout well enough to navigate without light. My feet are silent on the worn carpet as I move through the living room, past the tiny kitchen where we stood together just hours ago, down the hallway toward the bedroom.

I tell myself I’m just checking on him. Making sure he’s breathing properly. A reasonable precaution given his recent illness.

I don’t examine the lie too closely.

The bedroom door is slightly ajar. I left it that way deliberately, so I could hear if he called out in the night. So I could respond quickly if something went wrong. Perfectly logical. Perfectly sensible.

I push it open just enough to slip through and stop a few feet inside.

Moonlight filters through the gaps in the metal shutters, painting stripes of silver across the bed. Dylan is curled on his side, one hand tucked under his cheek, the blankets pulled up to his chin. His strawberry-blond hair is a mess against the pillow, catching the dim light and turning it to copper.

He looks peaceful. Young. The tension that usually defines his features has melted away in sleep, leaving behind something soft and unguarded.

I watch him breathe. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The small movements of his eyes behind closed lids, suggesting dreams I’ll never know about. The way his lips are slightly parted, soft and pink and vulnerable.

A proper person would leave. Would check that he’s breathing, confirm that he’s resting comfortably, and return to the horrible sofa. A proper person would not stand here in the dark like some sort of specter, cataloging the details of another man’s sleeping face.

I am not, it seems, a proper person.