His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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C A M I L A
One year.
Actually, 412 days, so that's more than a year, but close enough.
Anyway, it's been over a year, and I still don't trust the stairs. They creak under my weight like they're going to give out any second. The attic's safer in a way. And my person is downstairs, sleeping by the fire.
John's up here, messing with his tools and muttering something about rust.
What I care about is Charlie, curled up on the floor next to me, dark eyes blinking up at me, watching, assessing. His little body is so damn thin it disturbs me. Guilts me. Rips away at my soul as I tear away another piece of meat, the grease slick on my fingers, and hold it out to him. He sniffs at it, his nose twitching, then takes it.
That's three pieces now. I figure I should pace him, but fuck, if he wants more, I'm giving it to him.
The cold bites through my sweatpants, but I ignore it. Charlie is all my fault. I shouldn't have left him with her. But I did, and now he's like this.
I don't trust the stairs. I don't trust anything.
John's tools clink together in the background. "I had one. I had one, I did. Camila, I had one."
"You had one," I whisper.
"Yes," he says.
I focus back on Charlie, running my fingers over his ears. God, I missed this. I missed my little buddy.
Charlie's eyes close as I thumb his cheeks. "I'm so sorry," I murmur, my voice cracking, barely a whisper. "I'm so fucking sorry."
His eyes stay on me, trusting, forgiving.
I don't deserve it.
John stops for a moment, then resumes his tinkering. "A dog. Like yours. She was loyal. But she ran away."
"Goldie," I say as I remember, my fingers still moving through Charlie's fur.
"She didn't like the storms," John says. "She didn't like the noise, the way the sky would light up. She got scared. One day, she ran. I couldn't find her."
I look over at him, but he's not looking at me. He's focused on the small piece of metal in his hands, turning it over and over.
"I'm sorry," I say again, and I mean it—again.
John just nods, because he's used to it, and Goldie was all he had for a long time, and then she was gone. He's already made his peace with it. Just like the death of his child, and his wife, and anything and everything. That's why he's still up here in this old house that's barely holding itself together, just like us.
I turn back to Charlie. I don't know what I'd do if I lost him again. I don't think I could take it.
I shift, trying to get comfortable, but there's no comfort here. Not really. My skin is too tight. I'm crammed into a body that's all wrong. My mind's buzzing, thoughts darting like trapped flies, but I can't pin any of them down. They're all just flashes of memory.
