Fall (VIP 3)

I almost don’t want to know. Pity would kill me. But I find myself sending him texts anyway.

He doesn’t answer them. And, because I’ve apparently become a total masochist, I call him too. It goes straight to voicemail.

“I guess that’s that,” I mutter, tossing my phone onto the kitchen counter. Hurt invades my chest. It’s an ugly, sticky lump that I can’t dislodge. It follows me all day.

I’m halfway to being pissed all over again, but then I remember how he held me, changed my sheets, sang me songs. He was all in. John is many things—he is by no means perfect—but he’s never cruel. He would answer my texts and calls.

Suddenly, I’m ice cold. Something isn’t right, and I’ve spent days pouting when I should have been thinking objectively. It’s been days.

Without another thought, I head for the terrace and hop right over the wall. When I pound on the glass door, no one answers. I should go back home, but I can’t. Not when my instincts are shouting at me to keep going.

The door isn’t locked, and I really should talk to him about proper security. But at least I’m inside.

“John?” I creep through the living room, my heart pounding too hard for comfort. I don’t want to be afraid or think dark thoughts. I don’t want to worry about him like this. But I do.

There is an air of disuse here, as if he is gone. Maybe he went somewhere. He’s under no obligation to inform me of his comings and goings. But I’d heard music earlier, so I know someone has been here.

Another swell of cold fear prickles over my skin.

“John?” I call, louder now.

From somewhere upstairs, I hear a creak and then John’s voice, rough and grumbly and confused. “Stella?”

I should be polite, wait for him to come to me. After all, I’ve invaded his house. Again. But I find myself hurrying up the stairs. I just need to see him, know that he’s okay. “Are you decent?” I shout as I near his bedroom.

Another creak sounds, as though he’s moving around on his bed. “Jesus. I’m not naked, if that’s what you’re asking.” There’s a protracted pause, then he adds, “But I can be.”

Relief floods my body at the sound of his voice and the familiar way he teases.

“I was just trying to give you warning that I was coming up,” I call back, and I swear I hear him mutter “pest.”

In a louder voice, he calls back. “You don’t need to give me a warning.”

He’s bantering just as always, but it lacks its usual vigor. His bedroom door is half open, and I push inside.

It’s dim, the curtains drawn against the daylight. John is sprawled on a big bed, staring at the ceiling, though he clearly knows I’m here. I slow my steps and look around because this is not what I expected John’s room to look like.

Velvety black walls, heavy matching drapes, polished wood furniture, and oil paintings in gilded frames—it’s as if I’ve stepped out of New York and straight into the English countryside, but a bit edgier.

“Well,” I say, running a finger over a tobacco leather wing chair positioned in front of a black marble hearth. “This is cozy.”

John snorts but continues to gaze upward. “Killian calls it old-lady decor.”

It is. But in a nice, I come from old money sort of way. “It’s very Downton Abbey. With a bit of Addams Family twisted in.”

John looks at me then, tracking my movements. He’s wearing gray lounge pants and a ratty olive green T-shirt. Thick stubble covers his jaw, but he appears clean enough. We haven’t seen each other in a few days, and I’ve missed him. Even with the strange, detached look he’s giving me, I’ve missed him.

I could lie to myself and say I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed him, but I know better. I missed him the second he left my bedside. I’d wanted to beg him to stay. Hang out with me, not because he felt some obligation to take care of me, but because he wanted to be near me.

“Most of this stuff was my Gran’s,” he says. “I don’t know, it reminds me of childhood.”

My childhood home was cluttered with battered IKEA furniture and street finds. There was nothing homey about it, and I’d never try to replicate it. I’d rather live in John’s gilded nostalgia. I have a brief fantasy that includes scones with tea and John playing the part of randy duke.

“You hate it.” John’s voice has me glancing at him.

His expression is neutral, like he simply stated a well-known fact and doesn’t expect a reply. But he’s too still, and I know he wants my opinion.

“Honestly? I want to curl up and read and hope another freak blizzard hits just so we can light the fire.”