Repeat - Kylie Scott Page 0,52
the one who gets to stand by, hoping he doesn’t change his mind and pull the rug out from underneath my feet. I suppose I should want to go slow as well. My rational mind knows perfectly well how badly we struck disaster before. Which should be a warning for what looms ahead. But without the actual memories of the breakdown, with all its pain and misery, I just can’t feel it on an emotional level. My heart and body just want to rush forward into his arms and into his bed. Really into his bed, I mean, not just me perched on the opposite side throughout the night, like we’ve been doing.
What’s that saying about people who can’t remember the past being doomed to repeat it?
“I’m getting in the shower, then we’ll see about getting you to work,” he says. “Later, baby.”
“That’s the third time you’ve called me baby.”
“It won’t be the last,” he says with such certainty it warms not only my heart but everywhere.
“Did you used to call me that?”
“Yeah, I did. Is that a problem?”
“No.” I shake my head. Maybe a moment came in our breakdown when any talk of ‘baby’ was no longer possible, but if the term of endearment relates to good memories for him then it’s fine. “Not at all.”
“Good to know.” And he’s gone, padding down the hallway toward the bathroom.
“You’re the worst for interrupting and being sensible,” I inform Leif, who doesn’t even have the good grace to appear upset at the news.
“Sensible, shmensible,” he says. “That was just good old-fashioned cock-blocking. It’s pretty much the only enjoyable part of being a sibling.”
He raises his cup of coffee to me in toast. I salute him back with my own cup. It doesn’t seem worth holding a grudge over. Besides, he probably is right. Dammit. If only my heart would stop racing from all the overexcitement.
* * *
We hold hands on the walk to work. The sun is shining and I’m happy. Actually, I’m jam-packed full of joy, all of my worrying pushed aside for the moment. It’s a warning sign in and of itself. Little in my new life up until now has been what you’d call easy. And the familiar old feeling of paranoia comes roaring back when I see Iris in a frenzy trying to clean the shop’s front window, a rag and bottle of glass cleaner in hand. She’s scowling heavily. Not her usual expression of contentment at all.
“That’s my job,” I say.
“Guess you’re getting let off washing windows today.”
A man who could only be Iris’s beau Antonio comes out with a scraper type tool and holy shit. Now I see what the problem is. The glass has been covered in black. Not just the window but some of the pavement below. It’s like they threw a whole can of paint at the shop front. A big can. It’s one hell of a mess.
“What the fuck?” I gasp.
“What the fuck indeed,” says Iris, giving me a dour smile. “Vandals these days. You know, at least when they spray their tag on something I can pretend its art. This, however . . .”
“What can we do to help?” asks Ed.
“Oh, nothing. It’ll be fine.” Iris sighs. “But thank you. A neighboring shop owner saw it and called me first thing this morning, so the police have already been by. Unfortunately, whoever did it was wearing a hoodie and had face coverage, so the security camera didn’t get much. It appeared they might have been planning on doing more damage; there were a couple of attempts to kick the door in. Ridiculous, really, they just would have set off the alarm. Though I suppose they could have done some damage in the meantime. But thankfully it seems they got interrupted by late-night revelers or such. Clementine, are you all right, dear?”
Not really. Everything inside of me feels heavy with dread. “This is because of me.”
“Well, it would seem someone disagreed with your display of gardening books. I did think at the time it was a little edgy.” She smiles, but the attempt at humor feels strained.
“No. It really is about me, and not because of Frances being a cop at all. It’s about who I am. Or who I was.”
She pauses. “We don’t know that.”
“Hey, calm down. It’s just paint.” Ed’s hand slides around behind my neck, rubbing at the suddenly rock-hard muscles. “Iris is right, baby. We don’t know anything for sure.”
“First the attack, then my car, and now