I woke up lying in bed. My hair was dry, and I was dressed in my pajamas and covered with a down blanket. The room was dim. I looked at the clock on the nightstand and saw that it was just past eight. Whether it was AM or PM I couldn't tell. Closing my eyes again, I struggled to remember how I had ended up here. Slowly I pieced together my confrontation with Stefan from earlier. I couldn't remember all of the specifics, just the anger rising within and draining me. I couldn't recall what happened after that, so I figured I must have passed out. I hadn't slept for more than two hours a night in the past week, and I felt like a new person after my slumber.
Suddenly I heard clanging noises coming from the kitchen. I stiffened immediately, eyes widened and ears perked. However, it didn't sound like someone was breaking in. It sounded like someone was moving around pots and pans in my kitchen. The smell of cooking food filling my nose affirmed this conclusion. I vaguely wondered if my mother or Jack had let themselves in and were cooking some food. Pushing the heavy blanket off of my body, I lowered my feet to the ground. Finding my robe, I stood up and slipped it on, tying it securely around my waist. Opening the door from the bedroom, I looked around the corner to see who was in the kitchen.
Stefan was standing in front of the stove, wearing my apron and cutting something on the counter. I could smell garlic and marinara sauce and the delicious smell of cooking meat. I closed the door behind me, and the sound made him turn.
"I was just wondering if you'd ever wake up," he said, offering me a shy smile.
"Is it morning or night?" I asked, a little surprised at the hoarse sound of my voice. It felt like I hadn't spoken in days.
"It's evening. I'm making dinner... spaghetti and meatballs," he answered, gesturing to the stove. I walked over slowly and joined him in the kitchen.
"It smells wonderful."
"I'm glad... I hope it tastes good, too. I hope you don't mind my doing this... you just look like you haven't eaten in days... I know it's been hard, I just wanted to—" I cut him off by putting a silencing hand on his shoulder. He turned to face me questioningly. I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him softly on the lips.
"Thank you. This is really sweet." My stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. "And yes, I am starving," I said, offering him a smile.
It felt surprisingly good to have someone here. I welcomed his presence; I had not realized how much harder life was for the past week. I dimly realized that some time during my unconscious hours, I forgave him. Just thinking those words made a bit of warmth enter my heart. Did he tell me he loved me yesterday?
I walked over to the other side of the counter and sat down on a bar stool facing him.
"You look better already. You slept for a long time," he said, looking at me appreciatively.
"Do you mean to tell me that it's been a day and not just a few hours?"
"Yeah. I came here to talk to you yesterday," he answered, amused at the realization that dawned on my face.
"Damn. I need to call Beauchamp..." I said, getting up. He reached over and put his hand on my arm, stopping me. I jolted at the sensation of his touch, and he jerked his hand away. "Sorry—I just... I already talked to Beauchamp. I told him you were sick and taking the day off."
"Oh. Thank you," I said, sitting back down on the stool. I was still reeling from his touch. Now, back in my alive state, I realized just how badly I had missed him. Craving more, I reached over and touched his hand. He stopped moving and looked at me, hope and a question in his eyes. "I appreciate it," I said, mustering up a warm smile. He turned his hand over and interlaced his fingers with mine.
"Please don't thank me, Sarah. It's the very least I could do."
We remained silent for a minute or so, holding hands and looking at each other. Unspoken sentences arced between us: questions of forgiveness and answers of love and gratitude. I know I would never forget what happened, but I couldn't bear to let this man out of my life. Forgiveness was the only way forward.
Reluctantly, he let go of my hand and went back to cooking. Every once in a while he'd look up and smile at me, warmth in his eyes and color in his cheeks. I had forgotten how heartbreakingly handsome he was. I found myself smiling back, answering warmth radiating from my body. I was surprised to find myself responding to him physically, expecting to react by recoiling with fear. However, from him, all I felt was love.
With my guidance as to where to find things, he set the table and poured two glasses of red wine. I went back to the bedroom and changed into jeans and a tank top. I picked a tank top that was a bit small so that it exposed part of my midriff, displaying the fading bruises on my hips. I wanted him to see. I wanted to gauge his reaction to see if we really could face it and move forward.
When I went back into the kitchen, he was putting the food onto the plates. Everything smelled so good that my stomach audibly grumbled again. He looked up and saw me, smiling at me. His eyes traveled down my body with warmth until he reached the exposed skin of my midriff. His gaze darkened with what looked like anger, or maybe it was sadness. His eyes flicked back to mine.
"Is the food ready?" I asked.
"Yes," he answered, his features inscrutable. The slight downturn of his lips expressed his inner displeasure. I walked up to him and stood close, putting my hands on his arms to turn him to face me. As I looked into his eyes, I noticed that they were filled with tears.
"What is it?" I asked, reaching up to stroke his cheek. He closed his eyes and turned his face into my hand, a couple of tears escaping and sliding down his face.
"I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop thinking about how I just left and let him... let him do this to you," he traced the bruise on my hip with a shaking hand. I reached down and flattened his palm against it.
"We have to stop thinking about it. He wanted to ruin us by ruining me. Please, don't let him succeed," I whispered. He opened his eyes and looked into mine.
