Unworthy Of Love (BXB)

39. Honey I'm Home

Even before I open the door, I already know. I can just sense it, standing with the key in my hand, listening to the silence inside the apartment. No TV, no footsteps, no clanging of dishes, nothing. I could assume he's asleep, but no. He's gone.

I turn the key and push the door open and then stop in the doorway, looking around.

The apartment is empty.

I close the door and drop my keys into the bowl by the entrance. I walk into the room and plop onto the couch, and then just sit there, watching the orange light outside change gradually to grey.

I guess I knew it even before I gave him the keys in the morning. Still, I've chosen to trust him one more time, just like people keep on buying lottery tickets knowing they can't win. I couldn't win, either, and now I'm back to where I've started three years ago. He's probably on some bus already, heading out of the city, or even out of the state. It will take me ages to find him again—and should I even bother?

I rub my face and just sit there as the evening light fades around me, feeling too empty and tired to bring myself to do anything, to even think.

The room is almost dark when a scratching sound comes from the door. I jerk my head up and frown in confusion.

The door opens, and a figure wearing my pants, my baseball cap and one of my sweatshirts reaching almost down to his knees stumbles in, hugging two full grocery paper bags. He drops the keys into the bowl by the door and pauses, squinting into it, clearly noticing my keys inside. Then he looks around and jumps a little as his eyes find me.

"Crap!" he exclaims. "You scared me! Why're you sitting in the dark?"

Cursing under his breath, he strides into the kitchen. Rustling of paper comes out of there, and the sounds of items placed on the counter. I blink, trying and failing to contain the warm feeling spreading inside of my chest.

"Went shopping?" I say, trying for the nonchalant tone, but my voice comes out constrained.

"Of course, I did. You have a godzillion tuna cans in the house and nothing else. You eat like a cat."

"Where did you take the money from?"

"From your bedside table." He peeks out of the kitchen. "Seriously, you're making it so easy for robbers, keeping it there like that."

"By robbers you mean yourself?" I say, although I can't quite suppress a smile. "Just ask me next time. You can't keep taking my money without permission."

"If you have a problem with that, you can eat tuna." He disappears back into the kitchen. "I'm making a proper supper for myself. I'm freaking starving."

It takes him so long that I end up drifting into sleep sitting on the couch, and it's only when something kicks me in the ankle that I snap back to reality. I blink and look around the now completely dark room, the only light coming from the open kitchen door. In addition to the light, a few enticing smells come out of there, making my mouth water.

Raven is standing in front of me, his arms crossed on his chest.

"You could have offered a hand, you know," he says. "I'm not your servant."

"I've been working all day," I say, rubbing my eyes.

"How hard a port security guard job could be?"

"A lot of walking in the sun," I say. "Weren't you going to feed me tuna, anyway?"

"If you insist." He turns away. "Wash your hands. The food's getting cold."

The kitchen table is not big enough to contain half a dozen dishes he has prepared, so some of them stand on the counter, along with a six pack of beer.

"This is called chicken Alfredo." He walks around, pointing. "Here's a tuna and artichoke salad—since we had a lot of tuna. Oh, and that salad contains canned octopus. Do you like octopus?"

"Never tried it," I say, taking my place by the table.

"Neither have I, but I thought—hey, let's try new shit, since the sponsor is paying." He nods at me, and squeezes into the stool between the table and the fridge. "Bon appétit."

The food is delicious, and I get stuffed quickly by just trying bits of this and that. Raven doesn't eat much, which is wise given that he's been pretty much starving for more than a week. Most of the food is still left when we put our forks down.

"We'll put it in the fridge," says Raven, eyeing the mostly full bowls. "You should consider getting a bigger fridge."

"Never knew you could cook," I say.

"That's because Catherine only used my child labor to wash dishes. I like cooking. My mom was pretty good in it, too—see, she wasn't all that horrible."

I shrug, the possibility of admitting that a person forcing her child into prostitution could have had any redeeming qualities not sitting well with me.

"You could be a cook," I say.

"As much as you could be an accountant." He points his fork at me.

"You won't let that go, will you?"

"I just can't believe that's what you want to do with your life."

"Catherine keeps saying it's a steady job with a good salary."

"But you'll hate it."

"Probably."

"Why did you agree, then?"

"I didn't really care." I shrug. "Like, if it wasn't baseball, it didn't matter what it was."

He hums. "If you can't play sports, you could teach it, perhaps." He strokes his chin thoughtfully. "You could be a school coach or something."

I wrinkle my nose. "That's a job for losers."

"Is it? Was your coach a loser?"

I think about it.

"No, he was pretty cool. Was actually a kind of a father figure for some of us."

"You see? And you're good with kids. Catherine told me how good you were with the kids she took in before me."

"All right, enough," I say, uncomfortable with him trying to break into pieces yet another clear picture of future I have conjured up for myself. "I won't be planning my career right now." I get up and look around the table. "Let's wrap those things up and go to bed."

"Oh?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

I pause, realizing how it came across. "I meant, each of us going to his own bed."

"Come on," he says. "Your bed is big enough for two."

I snort. "No, it's not."

"Yes," he says. "It is."

*** Beware, the next chapter will contain explicit sexual content .... ***