Page 173 of Love Arranged

“You’re a real asshole for tracking me without my consent, by the way.”

“I’ll never apologize for prioritizing your safety.”

Her hands clench into fists by her side. “And who’s going to keep me safe fromyou?”

Pain laces through me, starting in the back of my throat before weaving its way through my chest.

I never wanted to hurt her, yet that’s all I manage to do.

With deft fingers, I secure the clasp and pull my hand back. “I’ll see you on Saturday at the assisted-living facility.”

“So that’s it? Back to business?” Her body tenses, visibly bracing herself for my reply.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Fuck you.” Her voice cracks, and my own heartbeat seems to slow as I replay the sentence in my head.

Lily has never spoken to me that way, and while deserved, it stillhurts.

“Get some rest.” For her benefit, I keep my voice cold and detached.

With another curse, she spins around and heads into her house while I watch from my spot on the curb.

Once the light in her bedroom turns on, I drive away, knowing that come tomorrow, everything between us will have changed.

I get home and am immediately assaulted with memories of Lily. Her basket of socks. The photo of us from the cooking class. The wilting bouquet that I’m supposed to replace tomorrow.

Everywhere I turn, I’m reminded of the woman who has infiltrated my life, turning it from shades of morally gray to a spectrum of colors that match her wardrobe.

I escape the entryway and head to the living room. Daisy gives up on sniffing my leg and disappears down the hall before returning with a pair of socks in her mouth.

“For fuck’s sake.” I wipe my face.

She drops the socks in front of me and whines.

“Your mom’s not coming home.”

She lies flat on her stomach and lets out another high-pitched noise.

“What?”

She nudges the socks with her nose, and I toss them onto the coffee table.

Since I can’t stand looking at Daisy without thinking about Lily, I head to the liquor cabinet for a bottle of scotch. I slam one of the doors and accidentally scare her, so she takes off running.

I don’t drink to get drunk ever. Doing so would take away my control, and I prefer to keep a tight grip on my reality. But tonight I make an exception.

Ineedto.

Because if I’m not thinking about Lily, then I’m ruminating over the debate and how I had to pretend I didn’t want to kill Trevor Ludlow with my bare hands.

Outside of large town events like the Strawberry Festival, I’ve been able to avoid Trevor. He hangs around a very elite group of people, and since he hardly volunteers around town, we rarely cross paths.

But now that we have, I have a taste for a different kind of revenge. One that my uncle stole from me by not pursuing manslaughter charges before Michigan’s ten-year statute of limitations.

I take a swig straight from the scotch bottle, the burn in my throat temporarily distracting me from the one in my chest. When that pain fades, I take another sip, and another, before the bottle starts to finally feel lighter.

Only that temporary relief is wiped away when Daisy returns with a new pair of socks, as if the first set wasn’t torturous enough.