Page 51 of From the Shadows

We’re both prickly. Both working through shit that maybe neither of us is ready to dive into and share. “Sorry. Listen, today’s been bad. I’m probably not great company. Apparently, I don’t have Evie to worry about, so maybe I should just go.”

That brings Jess to a sharp and jarring stop. Her shoulders are tense, and her back is ramrod straight. This version of her is so far removed from the one I just found cowering in her van. “Jess…”

“Nah. We’re going to chalk whatever this is up to a bad day all around.” She punches in the access code on her back door and pushes inside. “I’m going to take my shower and change in the event there’s any remaining sanguine detritus. Feel free to gather yourself.”

It’s not a great sign that she’s reverted to a formal tone and her impressive vocabulary as she walks away from me. No teasing glint. No seductively swaying hips. No heated glance over her shoulder.

Nothing.

I can’t blame her. She’s right.

I scrub my hands—the water scalding and suds plentiful—even though I know Jess already cleaned away the… detritus. She might be on to something because the more out-of-the-norm term does not have me going quite as queasy as the common one.

It hasn’t escaped my notice that she refers to snakes by just about anything but that. Serpents. Demons. Monsters. Legless bastards. I feel like all of that and more with the way she just retreated, both physically and emotionally.

The subtle clank of pipes as the shower starts up brings me back to the reality that things are less than copacetic. Until now, there would have been no question and no invitation necessary, but we’d be showering together. Dinner cooking. Evie tucked away in her portable crib for a few stolen moments.

How is it that without the chaos of an active toddler here, things are so much harder? It should be easier, shouldn’t it? We should have more freedom without needing to tend to her.

Spontaneous, instead of stilted and serious.

Free, instead of fucked up and frazzled.

I look through the fridge, intent on making dinner. A peace offering. A contribution. Something. But concentration is not my strong suit at the moment and building a dinner on the fly in a kitchen that is not my own requires a whole lot of that.

Instead, I grab myself a beer and wander out to the patio. Peace surrounds me. The stars stare down on me. And all I feel is some wild kind of unsettled.

I don’t understand it.

I can’t explain it.

But it covers me like a fine mist working its way into every crack and crevice. Coating me like an unwanted film.

My mess of misery.

I don’t know how long I stand there, but my beer is warm and unappetizing when I finally remember that the bottle is dangling from my fingers. No longer interested, I dump it out and go back inside. My heart still heavy. My thoughts still very much swirling.

“Hey, sorry. I wasn’t sure what you felt like for dinner,” I say when met with Jess’s back framed by the open door of the fridge.

“Not all that hungry. I’m just going to do cheese and crackers.” She looks at me over her shoulder, brow raised in question.

“Yeah, okay. I’m good with that.” I dig in the pantry and grab a couple different kinds of crackers, some dried fruit, and set them on the counter.

Jess adds her findings to the pile, and we each make a plate. Nothing fancy. Nothing particularly exciting. I probably should have offered to take her out tonight. Taken advantage of it just being us. But it feels too late now. Like an afterthought. Like the simplicity of our lazy charcuterie is somehow insufficient. It’s not, but even Jess is unsatisfied.

The wine she poured for herself seems to offend her, and after struggling with the cork, she shoves the bottle in the fridge and grabs another from the rack on her counter. The replacement beverage is a red, dark as blood, and I have to turn my head and focus my gaze elsewhere.

But it’s not enough. The color is too close to that of the substance that had me crashing out not that long ago, and my stomach turns, my appetite gone.

I tidy the kitchen, making a point to avoid the bottle of merlot, and then take a shower and get ready for bed. It feels presumptuous, but I need to wash this shit day away.

The warm water does nothing for me, so I crank it hotter still, hoping the scalding spray will loosen my muscles, or burn away the sick feeling. It does neither. Frustration runs deep, and I give up entirely, shutting off the taps, swiping the towel across my chest and rubbing it through my hair. I wrap it around my waist and step out of the bathroom.

The house is dark, shut down for the night earlier than normal.

Jess is in bed, propped up against the headboard, her laptop perched on a pillow balanced on her thighs.

“Want me to put a show on?”