Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
The only thing I can think to make that’s actually hot and hearty is the instant oatmeal sitting on one of the shelves. It’s sort of pitiful, but it’s the best I can do. There’s a tea kettle on the stove that doesn’t look like it’s ever been used, almost like it’s there for show. I can’t imagine this man making himself a cup of tea. I rinse it out before filling it, put it on a burner, and turn it to high heat. It takes a minute for me to find the bowls, the silverware, all of that—so by the time I have a packet of oatmeal in each bowl, the water is beginning to boil, and a high-pitched squeal fills the air.
Enzo comes back from pacing the living room, scowling at me. I lift the kettle from the burner and shrug, but that seems to satisfy him. He goes back to his pacing, this time walking the kitchen while I pour water into the bowls. He’s still not saying much, and I have to wonder if that’s because the person on the other end never stops talking. Either that, or he knows better than to put up an argument. There I was, imagining him as somebody powerful, the sort of person who doesn’t let anybody tell them what to do. I guess everybody has somebody higher up on the food chain who they need to answer to.
I place the bowls on the table and gesture for him to sit down. He’s either too distracted by his conversation to question me, or he’s genuinely hungry. Either way, he takes a seat, and I slide his bowl a little closer.
And all he does at first is stare at it, open-mouthed. Then he looks at me with plain confusion written all over his face. Okay, so maybe he’s not interested in eating, or just doesn’t care for instant oatmeal. Though I have to wonder why he’d have it in the cabinet if that’s how he feels. Maybe it’s just confusion in general. Why am I trying to take care of him, that kind of thing?
“You should eat,” I whisper, taking a seat across from him and picking up my spoon. When he continues to stare like he’s confused, I very deliberately take a spoonful of oatmeal and raise it to my lips. It’s like I’m trying to teach a child to feed himself.
“I understand,” he mutters, forgetting about me in favor of appeasing the person on the other end. I’m insanely curious now. Who are they? Why do they have this grip on him? How could I even ask that question in a way that would get me an answer? Is it worth trying? Do I really need to satisfy my curiosity?
I think it might be worth it. Until now, we’ve been nothing but adversaries. What if I make it so it seems like we’re in this together? Just two people at the mercy of others, unable to make decisions for ourselves, unable to be free. Like Stockholm Syndrome in reverse, come to think of it. Could I use that to my advantage? I need to try. Otherwise, the alternative is getting closer to him until I end up identifying with him for real, becoming like an accomplice in this insanity. I can’t let that happen. There is a world of difference between this man and me. I refuse to see it any other way.
So I’ll pretend to be friendly. I’ll try to reach the part of him that’s isolated, alone, and maybe even helpless. God knows I understand that feeling. He’s pretty good at hiding it, but when he’s on the phone like this, and it’s obvious he doesn’t have the upper hand, that helplessness is written all over his face.
His eyes snap up from the bowl, locking onto mine, and I have no choice but to avert my gaze. I don’t want him knowing I’m watching so closely. He might get suspicious. I eat slowly, taking my time, hoping to understand something, anything coming from the other side of the call. It’s unnerving knowing they’re talking about me even if Enzo doesn’t refer to me by name. Whoever he’s talking to, they’re making plans for my future while I sit here and stir a bowl of oatmeal, quickly getting clumpy and cold.
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” he murmurs. I glance up at him from under my eyelashes and find him smirking. “Yeah, that’s under control.” A nasty little shiver runs up my spine at the tone in his voice. I have to fight the impulse to look up at him. I know he’d be able to read my thoughts since I’ve never been very good at keeping a poker face.
Once he gets off the phone, I’ll have to be sympathetic. Can I pretend that well? He’s so shrewd—it’s almost impossible to get anything past him. Considering my life, my future, everything is hanging in the balance, I have no choice but to pretend. As dangerous as it is to think of him as a human being, it’s what I have to do if I’m going to make this believable.