Adelaide
I’ve locked myself in the bathroom.
Sitting on the cold, white-and-gray marble countertop with my back to the mirror, I watch my long legs dangle, not caring enough to tuck the loose hair brushing against my face behind my ears.
I can’t be around Ford. I don’t even want to breathe the same air as him right now.
My hands and arms are shaking, and I’m sure my face is red because my cheeks are hot to the touch.
Regardless of how much deep breathing I incorporate from my seven years of practicing pranayama breathing exercises in yoga classes throughout the world, I cannot find a way to calm my nerves.
I have never been as angry at anyone as I am at Ford right now. And although my irritation toward him is real, deciding to hate him isn’t a simple task.
With my millionth heavy exhale of the night, my eyesight neglects me and replaces itself with puddles of tears that won’t go away.
I wipe my eyes until I realize it’s pointless, and for a moment, I don’t care if I never see clearly again.
Ford is beyond complicated or byzantine. He’s like two different people.
I mean, how the hell can the man go from teaching sweet, little Edgar to bringing me beautiful flowers to wildly beating a young man on the street like the villain in a damn Liam Neeson movie?
I know that Ford’s goal was to protect me, and I truly appreciate it, I do. But he went too far. And the scary part is he was unnervingly comfortable doing it.
My cries for him to stop didn’t even break him from his violent, animalistic trance.
That poor, young boy.
I’m not just Ford’s girlfriend. I’m a doctor.
And with that, I can’t stop the scariest thoughts from entering my mind: what would he have done if I hadn’t physically stopped him? Would the young man be dead right now?
Anxiety hits me hard. I try to push the questions from my head, but they refuse to leave.
I hop from the countertop and start pacing back and forth on the tiled bathroom floor.
Speculating about Ford and his past has become redundant and supererogatory at this point.
I wish he’d just tell me something!
Has he killed before? Why did my brother choose him as my security? Is Ford capable of change or even loving?
And where does Demetri Bordeaux fit into all of this?
I am so damn sick of being left in the dark.
My hands stop shaking when I realize there’s dried blood on them. I wash them under the chrome faucet, violently scrubbing, taking my frustration out on my skin.
Still, I fail at removing all the blood from beneath my nails.
I love Ford. I made love to him.
I spent my life focusing on my career, not getting hung up on men, yet this is what I end up with!
Fuck him!
I’m angry. Conflicted.
Pacing.
I thought I’d never stop crying. Now I don’t think I’ll ever stop pacing.
He knocks on the door.
I don’t respond. I just keep moving.
When the knocks stop, I feel like my heartbeat has stopped, too—until I hear his voice.
“Addie!” Ford calls out. “Baby, don’t you understand I did that shit for you? That motherfucker tried to kill you!”
My heart attacks my chest, beating out of control. And I feel an emotion that I’m not sure even has a name.
I have butterflies. I miss Ford like I hadn’t seen him in years. But I am disgusted by him at the same time.
My tears stop, and I begin to chew my bottom lip, a nervous habit I thought I’d left behind in high school with Juicy Couture tracksuits and overly tweezed eyebrows.
“Addie, talk to me.” Ford’s voice is different. It almost sounds like he’s hurting, and I don’t know what to do with that.
I love Ford, but I don’t like him. In fact, I’m turned off.
Ugh. I’m so fucking confused. I’m too smart for this!
“Addie!” he calls out, the bass returning to his voice.
I’m a doctor. I dedicated myself to curing the sick and healing the wounded. Giving my heart to Ford and possibly even marrying him one day is the most duplicitous, hypocritical thing I can ever do.
I wish I had a glass—or three—of Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Montrachet Grand Cru Chardonnay right now.
I hear Ford exhale loudly. At the same time, a thud hits the door. I assume that was his forehead.
He walks away, and I feel like we’ve broken up. Blackness descends on me, grabs a hold, and threatens to drag me down into an abyss.
Lonely. I feel so lonely.
That young boy’s face was swollen. He gagged on his blood and almost lost his arm.
Yes, he did a bad thing, but he was still a kid. He’s probably lived a disadvantaged life, without parents to love and guide him. If anyone could sympathize with that, it should be the man who beat him senseless.
Ford.
In my mind, I can see myself dressing the open wound from the young boy’s arm. It gushed out so much blood, I’m surprised he had the energy to run off.
Adrenaline. I’m certain that’s what is was.
With that, I return to the sink, scrubbing the last bits of his blood from beneath my fingernails.
I hope the kid sought medical attention. He’ll need stiches to truly heal, and even then, I bet he’ll be left with a scar. A constant reminder of the beating he got in the street from the big, strong, deranged man.
The man I gave myself to.
I allowed him to be the first to enter me, and I never even knew him.
I feel sick to my stomach.
What happened to the boy I crushed on all those years ago?
The sandy haired boy with the honest, blue eyes that I bumped noses with the first time we kissed. How did he evolve into this frightening, unfamiliar person?
Were all the great moments we shared lies?
I dry my hands, reddened from the constant scrubbing, just to look in the mirror to notice I’ve got Ford’s victim’s blood on my face, too. And my red puffy eyes are perfectly complemented by smeared mascara and eyeliner.
Sighing, I use my Dior makeup remover and proceed to wash and moisturize my face.
I’ve gotta get out of here.
I carefully crack the bathroom door open.
Ford is nowhere in sight.
Maybe I can leave without having to see him.
When I completely step out of the bathroom, I release one final deep breath, which briefly relaxes me until he softly whispers “Hey” from behind me.
I slowly turn to face Ford, and feelings of repulsion, hate, and rage rush all over me. The young boy’s blood is on his face and clothes.
He’s a monster. I can’t stand to look at him, so I don’t.
I walk toward the door that leads to the long, carpeted hallway. Ford reaches out and grabs my wrist.
“Add—”
“Don’t touch me! Don’t you ever fucking touch me!” I scream, pulling my wrist from Ford’s grip using a strength I didn’t know I had.
“Adelaide, it isn’t safe out there.”
“It isn’t safe in here, either! Look, I don’t need you following me. I’m just going to the lounge on the twelfth floor for a coffee and a slice of pie or something. I need to be alone. I need to clear my head.”
For the first time since we’ve reunited, Ford doesn’t tail behind me, assert his power, or even say something slick and snarky.
Ford just allows me to leave without a fight, with a defeated expression glued to his face.
Closing the door to our shared hotel room behind me, with Ford on the other side, means that I’ve won.
Yup, I’ve won. So, why do I feel so damn shitty?