Page 49 of Miserable Marionette

When I search real deep down, okay, maybe just surface level, I only really care about one of those things.

I flinch as the pillow is ripped away, revealing my flushed face and wide eyes. Gideon’s arm flexes as he tosses the pillow to the end of the bed. “Dinner is ready.”

I open my mouth to respond, only to snap it shut again.

Because what the fuck can I possibly say?

Because none of this makes any sense, and I’m more discombobulated now than I was the day he left. There are no rules this time. No curfew, schooling, Mom or Dad to tell me what to do with myself. There are no arbitrary standards like don’t try to kiss your best friend or stare at his arms for too long. There’s no comfort or familiarity of having grown up beside someone, and yet just enough for there to be a constant pang in my chest.

I could do anything.

I could take my breasts out of my flimsy tank top and see if he’d touch them; I could kick him in the balls for being here. For having the audacity to cook food in my kitchen as if nothing has changed. Cry, scream, run, slap, laugh, hug…

And the worst part?

Gideon would let me.

So I just nod. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

He just stands there.

“I need to get dressed,” I offer.

He hikes a brow.

“And pee.”

My lips quirk into an almost smile until the familiarity of the game sets in, until bitterness takes the humor's place. He won’t budge an inch until he sees me actually get out of bed.

It’s not that I have no backbone, that I always stray toward the path of least resistance, but those things are partially true. When it really, really matters, I’d do the harder thing, I think. I’d stand up for myself and fight even if it’s exhausting. Right now, I just want to eat the food he made for me. Certainly not because I actually want him in my house; I do not. He watches intently as I shift the covers over my legs, standing a little too fast, casting him a loaded, happy-now look before stomping into the bathroom down the hall.

When I finish up in the bathroom, I feel a little more reasonable, a little more grounded. Brushed teeth, deodorant, and braided hair around an attractive guy goes a long way. I steel myself as I track down the hall toward the smell of food.

Eat, thank him, and ask him to leave. Simple.

When I turn the corner, it’s his back that faces me. Honed muscle and lean, clothed flesh. Gideon seems to eat up any space he occupies, so much so that it takes me a few pregnant seconds to realize what has captured his attention so thoroughly. He drags a cloth over the top of the shadow box displaying my dad’s flag and medals. Wiping away months’ worth of dust. The shame I feel watching it come off onto the rag is nearly enough to ruin my appetite.

“I didn’t know he’d died until years later. Dad never said anything.”

Tearing my eyes from him and the shadow box, he gently adjusts it on the mantle easily enough, walking past both of them only sightly harder. “Why would he have?”

“Aud—"

“Thank you for cooking…” I pause, looking at the now immaculate state of my home, my face burning with embarrassment. “…and cleaning, but I’m okay now. The news about Bryan caught me off guard, is all. I appreciate you staying, but—“

“Did Jackson embalm him?”

I stop, a plate halfway out of the cabinet. “That’s a twisted question, don’t you think?”

“Did he do a good job?” he asks, undisturbed as he comes up beside me, taking the plate from my frozen form. I watch blankly as he fills it with eggs, pancakes, and bacon. Breakfast for dinner has always been my favorite.

My thoughts are numb as I walk to the couch in the living room, plopping down unceremoniously. Avoiding looking at the lazy boy in the corner that’s sat mostly unoccupied since Dad died. “Good enough, I suppose.”

Gideon appears in front of me again, handing off the heavy, food-laden plate. When I reach out trying to take it from him, but he holds it tighter, exasperation pushing an unladylike sound from my throat.

“Audrey, I’m sorry.”

I stop breathing.