He texts back immediately, Too many to list. And I’m on a date, don’t you remember?
I roll my eyes at that and put my phone away on my bedside table.
It’s eight at night. He’s on a date; I should be off work completely, not checking my work phone. I’ve at least changed out of that wretched uniform and am sitting on my bed in leggings and a V-neck tunic that’s a little on the revealing side. I would never wear it around Pascal; his eyes linger on my body enough as it is. I most certainly wouldn’t wear it around the house, either, but Gautier isn’t expected until tomorrow night.
I’ve been trying not to think about it.
About what I’ll feel when I see him.
What I’ll say.
How I’ll act.
I’ve planned for this so many times over the last eight years, and each time I imagine it, it’s different, I guess depending on whatever I’m feeling at the moment.
I just need to hold it together the best that I can.
No matter what seeing him feels like, even if it makes me want to double over and vomit or burst into tears or run up to Pascal’s office and grab his gun and shoot Gautier in the heart, I have to pretend that the past doesn’t exist. I have to pretend that he didn’t break me, even though I know that was always his goal.
My mind swirls back to Pascal earlier today in the bathroom. The way he looked at me with such anger, pushed me back, pressed his hand to my throat—it reminded me so much of his father. And yet at the same time, I wasn’t afraid, because that anger came from a different place, and his touch was rough but not painful. He wasn’t trying to hurt me; he didn’t take any pleasure in it. He’s just used to letting his impulses guide him, as bad as they might be.
And it was exactly as I predicted. I didn’t mean to make him snap—that just came naturally—but the fact that he did snap was almost reassuring. It means he’s shaping up to be the man I pegged him to be. It’s one thing for someone to say they’re without conscience; it’s another to see it manifest.
Not that he wasn’t sorry about what happened. I know he was, and I guess if anything that was the most surprising part of the whole altercation. He regretted the way he acted. He was remorseful.
But he’s still Pascal, and I needed to see him with his mask off. I could tell all this week he’s been playing the part he plays so well, the joker, the trickster, everything is for fun, nothing is serious. I needed to see the side he hides when he’s trying to impress, the side the public gets, the side he believes sometimes. Like nothing can bother him when I know it does.
Now I feel we’re more equal, and if not that, at least I have a better handle on him. I need Pascal to be the easiest part of this whole job. Play the part of the dutiful maid, indulge his whims when it comes to the letters, be a sounding board for things he wouldn’t tell anyone because we have that contract protecting us both. I need to get that relationship sound—or as sound as it can be—so I can concentrate on why I’m really here.
A knock at my door snaps me out of my musings and not a moment too soon. My mind runs away on me at night, keeping sleep at bay, reliving horrors until I’m begging for sleep.
“Gabby,” my mother says from the other side. “Are you sleeping?”
She has no idea. I never slept a wink in this house back then—why should I now?
I get up and go to my bedroom door. She’s in her pajamas, silk. Probably Dumont, like everything is. There is no escape from them.
“Not sleeping,” I tell her; then I notice the teapot she has in her hand.
She gestures to the couch and says brightly, “I’ve made some tea. Kusmi. That’s still your favorite, right?”
“I haven’t had it since I left,” I admit.
“Oh, then you must have some now,” she says. “Come on.”
I’m not really in the mood to talk with my mother because, like she has all week, she’ll just want to talk about superficial stuff, deflecting anything deeper with a blank look and then a cheery smile.