have many more things to show you, Elle. Many.”
His finger is still bleeding. I go into doctor-mode again, pulling his hand into mine and examining the wound. At least using my medical knowledge to assess his finger might distract me from being pulled under his spell again. “This is going to need more than bandaging, Leo.”
He pulls his hand away and rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing—”
“It’s a deep cut. It might need a stitch or two. Considering you cut it right where you bend your finger—”
“Thank you, Elle. That will be all.” He gives me a dismissive wave of his hand—almost as though he’s excusing me like one of his servants—before his gaze snaps to mine. His eyes widen in what almost looks like horror, and his mouth falls open.
My jaw tightens. “Oh.” I force another smile. “I see. Well, you can tend to your own bandaging, then, I suppose. But don’t come crying to me when you can’t bend your finger next week.”
“Elle, I didn’t mean—”
“I know exactly what you meant.” The stabbing pain in my chest returns, and I try to cover my emotions with another small smile and motion to the other side of the room. “Why don’t you go clean up your cut? There are supplies in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror in the bathroom.”
“I would appreciate your assistance. If you feel bandaging is necessary—”
“ I will be cleaning up the mess you made in the kitchen while you tend to your wound. But get this straight, Leo. This is the last time I clean up any mess of yours.”
He stares at me for a long moment. “That came out wrong—what I said. Surely you of all people—”
“Fuck you, Leo.” I shake my head and turn my attention to the stove without another word.
He slinks toward the bathroom and I turn to the mess left on the stove by Leo’s botched attempt at cooking. I toss the bloodied peppers into the garbage and put the cutting board and knife into the dishwasher. The main problem is the stinking pan of burned onions, so I grab it to dump it into the trash.
“Men and their fucking messes,” I mutter to myself as I open the side door and walk outside to the garbage can. I haven’t even lifted the lid before I hear the clicking of cameras. Someone calls out my name before I can even look up, only this time, they’re yelling, “Elle! Elle!” and not calling me Eleanor.
How the hell did I forget about this mess?
They start yelling out questions, but so many of them are shouting at once that I can’t really understand any of them.
I drop my gaze to what I’m doing—I dump the burned onions into the garbage can and keep my head down, making a beeline back to the house.
But then I hear a lone question—a woman. I’m not sure if the other voices have stopped or if maybe I’m just able to hear her voice alone among the others. But I hear every word she says.
“How does this end, Elle?”
I turn and my gaze snaps to hers, but I say nothing. I just feel the twisting sensation in my chest again. I can’t breathe—I stare at her for what seems like an eternity. Finally, I shake my head without saying a word to any of them and go back into the house.
Stepping into the kitchen, I lift my hands to grasp the edge of the counter and close my eyes, trying to catch my breath.
How does this end? There is only one answer to this question.Not well. And not well is probably the best I can hope for at this point. If things go on much longer, it’s going to be much, much worse than that.
A buzzing sound rings in my ears and I have to blink a few times, unsure of what it is or where it’s coming from. I think I might be imagining it, but then I hear it again. And again.
Leo’s phone is sitting on the counter. I almost laugh when I remember how he had been trying to use it to figure out how to chop onions—I still can’t believe he needed the internet for that. I think it was my first genuine laugh in over a year.
The phone buzzes again and a few seconds
His finger is still bleeding. I go into doctor-mode again, pulling his hand into mine and examining the wound. At least using my medical knowledge to assess his finger might distract me from being pulled under his spell again. “This is going to need more than bandaging, Leo.”
He pulls his hand away and rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing—”
“It’s a deep cut. It might need a stitch or two. Considering you cut it right where you bend your finger—”
“Thank you, Elle. That will be all.” He gives me a dismissive wave of his hand—almost as though he’s excusing me like one of his servants—before his gaze snaps to mine. His eyes widen in what almost looks like horror, and his mouth falls open.
My jaw tightens. “Oh.” I force another smile. “I see. Well, you can tend to your own bandaging, then, I suppose. But don’t come crying to me when you can’t bend your finger next week.”
“Elle, I didn’t mean—”
“I know exactly what you meant.” The stabbing pain in my chest returns, and I try to cover my emotions with another small smile and motion to the other side of the room. “Why don’t you go clean up your cut? There are supplies in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror in the bathroom.”
“I would appreciate your assistance. If you feel bandaging is necessary—”
“ I will be cleaning up the mess you made in the kitchen while you tend to your wound. But get this straight, Leo. This is the last time I clean up any mess of yours.”
He stares at me for a long moment. “That came out wrong—what I said. Surely you of all people—”
“Fuck you, Leo.” I shake my head and turn my attention to the stove without another word.
He slinks toward the bathroom and I turn to the mess left on the stove by Leo’s botched attempt at cooking. I toss the bloodied peppers into the garbage and put the cutting board and knife into the dishwasher. The main problem is the stinking pan of burned onions, so I grab it to dump it into the trash.
“Men and their fucking messes,” I mutter to myself as I open the side door and walk outside to the garbage can. I haven’t even lifted the lid before I hear the clicking of cameras. Someone calls out my name before I can even look up, only this time, they’re yelling, “Elle! Elle!” and not calling me Eleanor.
How the hell did I forget about this mess?
They start yelling out questions, but so many of them are shouting at once that I can’t really understand any of them.
I drop my gaze to what I’m doing—I dump the burned onions into the garbage can and keep my head down, making a beeline back to the house.
But then I hear a lone question—a woman. I’m not sure if the other voices have stopped or if maybe I’m just able to hear her voice alone among the others. But I hear every word she says.
“How does this end, Elle?”
I turn and my gaze snaps to hers, but I say nothing. I just feel the twisting sensation in my chest again. I can’t breathe—I stare at her for what seems like an eternity. Finally, I shake my head without saying a word to any of them and go back into the house.
Stepping into the kitchen, I lift my hands to grasp the edge of the counter and close my eyes, trying to catch my breath.
How does this end? There is only one answer to this question.Not well. And not well is probably the best I can hope for at this point. If things go on much longer, it’s going to be much, much worse than that.
A buzzing sound rings in my ears and I have to blink a few times, unsure of what it is or where it’s coming from. I think I might be imagining it, but then I hear it again. And again.
Leo’s phone is sitting on the counter. I almost laugh when I remember how he had been trying to use it to figure out how to chop onions—I still can’t believe he needed the internet for that. I think it was my first genuine laugh in over a year.
The phone buzzes again and a few seconds
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