Roses

Chapter Three- Cherry

I woke up when I heard a door slam downstairs. Staring over at my alarm clock, I saw it was an alarming 6:30 in the morning. I never woke up earlier than 10. Plus, who the hell was here at six in the god damn morning? I sat up, rubbing my eyes until black spots clouded my vision. Blinking a few times, I saw a couple boxes of clothes and a suitcase shoved in the corner of the room. Right, Kyrie must've moved in. But why so early? I groaned and laid back in bed. Why couldn't he have moved in when I was awake? And why did he have to move into the same room as me? Disgust burried itself deep into my chest at the thought of even sleeping in the same bed as this man that I barely knew, and even the thought of sleeping besides him in general disgusted me. That's something only loved-dovey couples did. Cuddling, kissing, and holding each other all night in some sort of fake comfort. It was a waste of time. Bile rose from the pits of my stomach at the thoughts and I sat back up and decided since I was up, I might as well start my day.

___

10 Hours Later ( 4:57 PM)

Having the giant house to myself all day wasn't much different than when I was living with my parents. Mom was always out shopping, dad was at work or at a club, and my sister? I hadn't a clue. We were never close enough for me to feel comfortable asking. 

After being alone for so long, you pick up some skills, one of them being cooking. Since it was the end of summer and the leaves were beginning to turn colors and fall to the ground I decided  it would be right to make some soup. For a minute I pondered whether or not to make a second portion for Kyrie, but I ultimately decided not to. He's a man, he can make his own food. As I got out the pot and began pouring chicken broth into the pot, the door opens, and walks in Kyrie in all his "glory". Soft brown hair that fell messily around his face due to the wind, icy, even frozen blue eyes that any girl would fall for, and a tailored suit fit onto him. I just rolled my eyes. I didn't understand the appeal. If anything, it felt gross living with a man who wasn't family. It felt even worse when I could feel him lingering behind me just by a few inches. "What?" I finally snap, refusing to turn to look at him. 

"Can't a man watch his wife cook dinner?" His voice smooth yet full of sharp ridges

"Don't call me your wife, we both know this whole shit show was for my dad's company," I let out an annoyed huff and step to the side to escape him. I yank a cutting board from the drawer and I begin peeling and chopping potatoes. Yet I could feel his eyes lingering on me the whole time. 

"You know, you cant change the fact we are married, so why not just try to make the best out of it. You might even fall in love with me," His tone darkening as if that's what he expected to happen. I couldn't help but feel vomit rise at the thought of love. Giving away your everything, your trust, heart, everything to someone and hoping they accept it and not break it all and leave you a crumbled mess? No thanks. I stayed quiet, quite fed up with the conversation. That was, until he swiped my hair back into a loose ponytail for me while I was cutting the last potato, I just about gagged and threw up all over my dinner.

"Don't touch me," I attempt to hide the disgust in my voice.

"Oh? Why not?" He asks, backing away a step. I didn't answer. Instead I ignored him the rest of the time I was cooking and eating. I hadn't made a second serving for him, so he had to get something himself. Which seeing the absolute disappointment in his face when I left nothing for him in the pot was the most hilarious thing I had seen in years. After devouring my warm soup I decided to turn in for the night. Tucking myself into the soft, silky, and cool sheets of the queen bed in my bedroom. The balcony door open to let in cool air. I stare up at the smooth ceiling and I allow the emptiness that sticks itself to my chest take over. A familiar feeling of disassociation falling over me. I felt as if I was in third person watching myself. That was all until I felt the covers move and I could smell a familiar and vile scent from besides me. It wasn't that he smelled bad, no. Kyrie smelled like a warm fireplace on a winter day. How he smelled like that, I hadn't a clue. It seemed impossible. My eyes flicker over to him for a second before I feel sick. I hated the fact I allowed him so close. It felt disgusting and I had no idea why. I rolled over to the very edge of my side of the bed before I heard his tired voice pick up. "You don't have to run from me, pretty girl. I wont hurt you or even look at you if you don't want me too, but I can tell something is up. So talk to me. I'm your husband, even if there's no feelings behind us, we are still bound to each other,"

"No, Fuck off Kyrie" My words came out before I had a chance to think about them. I really didn't mean to sound that, well, mean. But I did. And I wasn't one to apologize. So I just closed my eyes and prayed I would fall asleep.