Sleepwalker

Chapter Eighteen: The Lover's Point

“Dill? I-I did your laundry,” I announced, peering down at my white socks.

Without looking at me, he continued buttoning his shirt. “Bit hypocritical, don’t you think?” He spat. “Did you wash my other trousers?” He flicked through the pile.

I nodded. “Of course. Dill, at least look at me. I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I’m sorry that I didn’t thank you. Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now?”

His head snapped toward me. Fury burned in his eyes. “Am I happy now? Am I happy that I’ve spent the last six days taking care of you and worrying about you? Am I happy that I had to save you by dragging you for hours while you were doped up on opium? Am I happy that when you woke up you did not even have the courtesy to ask me if I was okay and then you yelled at me? Yes, Jenny, I’ve never been happier.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic about it! I said I was sorry!”

“And I’m sure your papa told you that as long as you did that, everything would work out okay.” Paired perfectly with his condescending tone was a roll of his eyes.

I gritted my teeth. “Where did you get this nonsense that my father spoiled me? I have been working since before I could spell the word! I am not the spoiled one here, Armadillo. Your father stole so that you wouldn’t have to work a day in your life, so that you could study and do whatever is you want!” I screamed, frustrated with him.

“Ah, yes, there you go, attacking my father again. At least this time, you weren’t a guest in his home!” He snarled. “I suppose you’ll insult my mother’s hair next.”

“Well then, why don’t you go run home to her like the Mama’s boy you are!”

There was a moment of hesitance in his retort. “At least, I have a mother to run home to.” His voice was no longer scorching in anger; it was frigid and bitter.

Before I could start crying, I said, “To think that I was going to thank you for helping me! Now, I really know how to thank you. Thank you, Armadillo, for boosting your own image by pretending that you were intimate with me, thank you for helping some thieves break my foot, and thank you for drugging me with opium.” Though it was a bit dramatic, I slapped him across the face to relieve some of my rage.

Mouth open, he stared at me. His expression was stunned. “You slapped me.”

The rationality of my actions burrowed in while I studied the crimson mark across his cheek. “I did. I…I don’t know what came over me,” I stated, my mouth almost as wide as his. “I…I’m so sorry…about hitting you, about my harsh words, everything.”

He ran his hand along his cheek. “Besides the thieves, no one has ever hit me.”

“You are kidding, right? Not one person other than Varick has ever hit you for being so arrogant?” I queried doubtfully. I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Perhaps that is what made me this way.” He brought his hand to his chin pensively. “Has anyone ever hit you before?” He sounded far off, confused, astounded.

I nearly laughed, “Of course, they have. When I mouthed off to my father, he would take off his belt. Guests at the inn didn’t take too kindly to an alcohol limit. And…once, a girl shoved me into a lake.” I shuddered at the thought of flailing under the water, with no air. My throat felt tight. My heart thumped harder in my chest.

“Did you say a belt? He hit you with a belt? I can scarcely imagine how terrible that was. You didn’t complain? You didn’t accuse him of abuse? Did you hate him?”