Genevieve
ONE STEP FORWARD, THREE BACK.
How is it that every fucking time we make progress, we're backtracking? Why is it that right now after the colossal steps we've taken, we're right back to square one? This shit's messing with my head, and it's one of the reasons why I've been second-guessing evolving this blossoming relationship with Ford. The baggage is toxic and hefty, and the contents of this drawer substantiates that.
Ford's expression is as guarded as ever, eyes clinically assimilating the scene in front of him. He strides to the desk and deposits the snacks he's brought up from the kitchen. He avoids my gaze at first as I remain crouched by the drawer that stores his dirty little secret. But then he turns back to me, and I see the flash of self-loathing in his eyes.
"Why'd you go rooting through my drawers, Genevieve?" His tone is careful but deliberate.
I've not long emerged from the bathroom. While I'm dressed back in the shorts from earlier, I'm still clad in Ford's T-shirt he gave to me. His cologne and personal scent clings to the material, and it's exerted all my willpower not to scrunch it up to my nose and inhale. But my hair is still wet, dampening the T-shirt.
"Harris barged in," I answer, the anguish thick in my words. "Told me to open this drawer."
He sighs. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to explain what this is." I gesture hotly to the stack of bracelets, noticing my gold one sits atop of all of them. The sight makes me sick because I've got a good suspicion of what this is, but I want to him confirm it. The dread is festering in my gut.
"You know what it is."
"I want to hear it from your mouth."
He pauses for the longest time. My knees are throbbing in this position, but I don't dare to move and shift the balance between us. For as long as he's got his eyes on me, I want to be as close as I can to the bracelets. The fact that mine is stored with them increases my nausea tenfold.
After everything he's confessed to me—how difficult it's seemingly been for him to articulate his thoughts and feelings into words—does he truly think I'm just another one of his girls? Is that why I've been slotted into the same drawer as them? Hoarding bracelets of girls he's had in his past. There's something... disturbing in that. And with the multitude of bracelets in front of me, am I just another number to him? Another notch on the bedpost?
I cast my gaze back to the bracelets, and I spot the name 'Gabriella' underneath mine. She was my predecessor until her untimely and insidious demise, being murdered and butchered by Carson Henry for having an association with Red Alert. If she hadn't had been so drugged out of her mind with Bullet, maybe she could have gotten away from Carson.
Finally, he yields to my demand. "Yes, these are the girls before you. But don't you want to know why I've kept all their bracelets?"
I cut my gaze straight back to him, eyes narrowing. "Are you going to mention the gross resemblance between them all? Including my gold one."
He ignores me and my dig. "I keep them to remind me of what I've done. What pain I've caused. And I do it to keep their name alive, even if it's for selfish reasons. It's my past, Genevieve. I can't rewrite it now. They're my mistakes. I learn from them."
Swallowing down the urge to snap with something snide, I glance away from him. Of course that's fucking true that he can't rewrite his history. I know what I'm falling into here. I expected all the girls before me. That's not a shock. Maybe the large quantity of bracelets is a staggering awareness I've not been anticipating, but it's the fact that I've had one similar that vexes me to hell.
