“Yes.” But I'd like to protest. I'd like to tell him I'd much rather sit out here until the sun goes down. I look at his hand again and remind myself that I am a free woman and that I can swing out here every day if I want to. With that, I take his hand, glance one more time at the miles of green surrounding the front yard, and follow Dr. Watson through the front door.
The foyer alone of the house is as big as two of the houses I grew up in. All of the walls are painted a dark crimson and trimmed with cherry stained wood. The floor is made up of black and white marble tile that reminds me of a checkerboard. But, the upside down pear shaped chandelier is by far this room’s most stunning attribute.
Sunlight bleed in from the window and when the light catches the ornate crystals dangling from the chandelier, it creates a mood of ambiance as the little crystals reflect against the walls. I do a spin and throw my head back, taking in the sight of the biblical designs in tiny, chipped out mosaic tiles adorning the ceiling.
“Follow me,” Dr. Watson calls from the wide staircase as he starts up the steps slowly. I abandon my assessment of the foyer and follow him up the red carpeted stairs. We come to another set of staircases. One on the right, another on the left. Dr. Watson turns right and stops at the very top of the steps. He pushes a large wooden door open and says, “Go Ahead.”
“Is this where I'll be staying?”
He nods.
I walk into the room and my eyes nearly pop out of my skull.
This isn't like a room.
It's like a house all in its own.
The bed is big enough to fit at least five people. Violet draperies hang from the cast iron canopy and the bed is piled high with pillows. I trail my fingers along the satin curtains on the canopy and let out a sigh. I feel like royalty. Not some poor, crazy woman from the slums. I have dressers, a vanity. A sitting room. Even a closet big enough to walk into. Finally I find the bathroom. There's black marble covering floors and even half of the walls. My bathtub is wide and round and could comfortable fit at least three people. As I take in my surroundings for the umpteenth time in awe, I realize something. I can't do this.
I turn on my heel, walking to the door and smack into Dr. Watson. He must have been behind me watching. Studying. Observing. It's typical. “I'm sorry, Dr. Watson,” I gush. “I didn't see you there.” My hands press into his chest and I can feel the lean muscle beneath his white button up. Sliding my fingers across the ridges of definition, I don't want to stop touching him, but I do.
And I can't bring myself to look at him either.
I drop my hands and look around again. This situation is too good to be true. Something about it feels wrong even though deep down inside I know it’s not. I can't live here with him. For one thing, I've developed some kind of feelings for him and to watch him date countless women, bring them home, and make love to them will rip my heart in half. Secondly, he must expect some sort of repayment for this generosity and I have nothing to give.
In that moment I think of something Marlena Allen had said about me once. She said, Girls like you. What she meant by that was that I was different from normal girls because in her eyes I would always be trash. My eyes wander over to Dr. Watson who is staring at me intently, his thumb pressed against his plump lips. I wonder if he thinks of me the same way sometimes. I wonder if deep down inside that he's aiding me out of pity. Because if that's why he's doing this for me, I don't want it.
I don't want anyone's pity.
When a person is born nobody stands in the delivery room with a sign that says life is easy. You're welcomed into the world with tears, possibly smiles, and a slap on your rear. It's like you're here kid, go make something of yourself. Also, when you're born no one can prepare you for what kind of life you'll lead. No one could have prepared me for my father to snap, murder my mother, beat me bloody for eight years straight, and then try to shoot me, killing the only boy I'd ever loved instead.
No one could have prepared me for that.
No one.
The one, vital thing I've learned through everything I've gone through is my life is what I make of it.
And I can't make anything of it being a charity case for someone else.
“I'm sorry Dr. Watson,” I say breathless, trying to suck back my oncoming tears. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I can't live here with you.”
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The smile on his face falters.
He frowns.
And my heart breaks because I love it when he smiles.
He clears his throat. “You don't like your room?” He's trying to read me again. “If that's the case we can have it changed to however you'd like it.”
“No,” I say. “That's not it.”
I don't understand why he's being so nice to me. I don't understand why he thinks I deserve so much when I know I don't deserve anything at all.
I push past him, ignoring him as he calls my name. I run down the wide stair case and out the front door. I stop only for a sliver of a second to gaze longingly at the porch swing then sprint through the miles of endless green grass.
The sound of huffing is added to the sound of my own raspy breathing. Dr. Watson comes up beside me and grips onto my arm. He jerks me the slightest bit and I come to a halt, leaning over to catch my breath. “Why do you always do that?” he asks, trying to steady his breathing as well.