He'll have to break all the rules to keep her, but first she has to break just one and let him in...
It's taken four years, but Anna Fray has finally put the past behind her. Mostly. She fills her days working in a bar and her nights watching bad ro...
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Cool porcelain pressed into my palms, and I focussed on the sensation, trying to root myself in the moment.
I clutched the edge of the sink as I stared at the girl in the mirror. It was a cliché, wasn't it, to go through what I had and to see someone different in the mirror. But there she was. I recognised the icy blue eyes - too big for my rounded face - and the dark brown hair I always wished would lighten with the sun, like my mother's. But it felt like she was someone else. The body, pressed against the edge of the sink, and aching for sleep, didn't feel like mine. It was like I was a passenger looking through someone else's eyes.
Except, as I stared at the puffy lips of the reflection before me I could feel how they tingled with the memory of Atticus' last kiss. The sensation was like an anchor, a lightning rod for my sense of self.
My fingers brushed against the surface, tracing the creases that lined the surface of my lower lip, like I could suck the electricity from Atticus' kiss and use it to jump-start the connection between my body and consciousness.
"Anna?" his voice called softly through the door, and I felt my body answer. A tug pulled at the pit of my stomach and with it I felt myself sink back into place.
"I'm coming," I called, as I fiddled with the skewed edge of my pyjama top.
I'd lost track of time as I showered and changed. From the slight edge in Atticus' voice, it had been long enough for him to start to worry.
The discarded clothes lay in a heap behind me, and I knew they'd stay there for another week or two. It had been cathartic to shed them and feel the heat of the water pummel down on me, washing away the recent memories. Like a snake breaking free of its skin, I'd let the water take Christopher's fingerprints and Olivia's vitriol with it. All that was left was fresh pink skin, shining with heat and astringent soap.
Steam billowed into the kitchen as I prepared to tiptoe through the carnage on the kitchen floor. My chest ached when I saw that Atticus had already cleared as much as he could while I showered. Where broken glasses and shattered plates had peppered the tiled floor, it now shone, the scent of lemon floor cleaner hanging in the air.
Atticus stood at the kitchen sink, his hands hidden below a thick cloud of suds. I let my gaze linger on the way his broad back muscles twitched and rolled as he finished scrubbing whatever lay beneath the water's surface.
My feet squeaked against the freshly cleaned floor.
He glanced towards the window, using its surface to catch my gaze. As he did, I saw the way his body tensed. Like a living statue, his whole being seemed to freeze as he fixated on my ghostly figure imprinted on the window pane.
"You don't have to do that," I murmured. He'd done too much already.
He pulled the limp tea towel from the side of the sink and dried his hands off as he turned.
