Chapter twenty-one:

 

 

I clean her dishes and I organize her cupboards. I even put a load of dirty laundry into the machine and turn it on. And I wonder if this is what it will always be like. If she will sleep in on Saturdays, and I will clean the house. She will have been up all night breastfeeding our baby, so I can’t blame her for needing the extra sleep. And I won’t be jealous of the attention she pays the baby, because she’s doing it for us.

And then I will wake her with a coffee and a croissant. But not from the bakery near me, because the woman behind the counter is an asshole. I’ll find somewhere new, and somewhere better. In fact, we won’t even live near there anymore. We’ll live in a nice neighborhood. But not somewhere stuck-up like this place.

I look around at the mismatched furniture and the badly decorated rooms and I shake my head, wondering how I will put it to her that she isn’t allowed to choose our décor. I don’t want to upset her, of course, but this is really bad. In fact, the more I look, the more I wonder if this place is really hers. She wanted to be an artist—a painter, to be more specific. Surely she should have better knowledge of color coordination and such.

I shake my head because none of this makes any sense. And I don’t like it when things don’t make sense.

I look in on Carrie and see that she’s still asleep. She’s barely moved all night, and the swelling on her face is even worse now. Between the swelling on her cheek and the swelling on her forehead, her right eye is being squished up so that it is almost closed. She should probably go to the emergency room, but then there would be questions and I don’t want her to be worried or frightened.

So no, I’ll keep her here and I’ll look after her. I know basic first aid anyway. I learned that in one of the books I read when I was in the hospital. It was one of the courses I did. I failed the course, because I didn’t like the sight of blood, but I still remember what they said. I have a very good memory for what people say.

I head upstairs and decide to take a shower. I feel dirty, my skin feels sticky—sweaty, almost—and I want to be at my best when Carrie wakes up. I strip out of my clothes and put a second load of washing in her machine, and I put in some more of her things. I use her soap powder, and I smell it and I feel at home with her dirty laundry and her smells, and then I turn the machine on.

I watch for several seconds in silence as our clothes twist and mingle together.

Her reds with my blues.

My blacks with her whites.

It’s beautiful and chaotic and glorious.

We are one and we are not.

It’s all just so fucking perfect.

I make myself another black coffee and head upstairs. I’m naked walking around her house and it’s great because I don’t feel self-conscious at all. I have a good body, I know that. I exercise and I eat well. I am lean and muscled, but not too muscled. I have a tight waist and a flat stomach. My ass is hard and tight and I know that Carrie will appreciate my body when she sees it. Which makes it even more important that I clean now.

If she wants to have sex when she wakes up, I at least want that to be perfect since my entrance back into her life wasn’t.

I turn the water on, and I make it nice and hot like I like it. I climb in her tub and I pull the curtain around it, and then I stand under the water and feel my worries washing away, swirling down the drain along with my sweat. She has lots of things in her bathroom, so many creams and body washes, hair products and deodorants. It’s a little overwhelming, if I’m honest. I use her shampoo and her body wash. I use her sponge and her cloth, and when I turn the shower off, I use her towel to wrap around my body.

My teeth feel dirty but I don’t have my toothbrush with me. I stare at hers for a long time. I don’t like the idea of using hers; I think of all the germs inside a person’s mouth, all of the bacteria that lives in there, and it makes me gag. But then I think about how close I’ll feel to her by using her toothbrush. And really, is it much different from kissing her? Not really.

And so because I know she won’t mind because she doesn’t have the same afflictions and phobias as me, I use her toothbrush. And I feel so much better afterwards. I keep the towel around my waist and go into her bedroom, and I look through her clothes.

I’m surprised by how many “sexy outfits” she has. She has sex toys too. It all makes me frown and feel a little bit sick. I think about Adam, and I wonder if he bought them all for her. If he used this pink vibrator on her. He’s a bastard, and she’s a filthy whore when she’s near him. I grab the trash can in the corner of the room and I pull out all the filthy underwear and the sex toys and I pile them all into the trash.

She’s not his whore anymore.

I feel better when I’ve cleaned away those items, and then I strip her bed and I pile the dirty sheets into the laundry basket but I can’t make it up again because she only seems to have one set of bedsheets. So I straighten the cover and the pillows up, and as soon as the machine finishes I’ll put in the bedding. And I can’t wait to see her face.

Then I take another shower to wash myself again because I feel dirty after touching her dirty things.

This house isn’t so bad after all, I think as I look around it. Once it’s cleaned and organized. Once it’s redecorated and I move my things in, maybe it could actually be okay.

I look out the bedroom window and take in the view. The window looks out over the back yard and no other houses overlook it; that’s how upmarket this area is. I can see patio furniture in the next yard, and I wonder, if we lived here, would we have barbecues with our neighbors. Would they laugh about all the years Carrie lived here and they never got to know her.

They’ll probably say that they never made the effort because her boyfriend looked like a fancy asshole, but they like me because I’m more down to earth. I’m more handsome. More put together. And who needs money and a fancy suit when you’re a good guy like me.

I’ll laugh the compliment off and Carrie will just smile. And later that night, as she’s riding me, grinding down on my dick like her life depends on it, she’ll tell me how lucky she is that I found her. And that I really am the best thing that ever happened to her. I’ll just kiss her and tell her I love her. And we were always meant to be.

And she won’t think about Adam as she orgasms on top of me. Instead she’ll lean down and press her mouth to mine and she’ll say she’s sorry for leaving all those years ago. She was just messed up, and things got out of control.

She’ll say that she’s never going to leave me ever again.