29
Liesel
Langston apologized.
I don’t know what to do with that.
“Need anything else? Can I get you more painkillers? Food? Anything?” Langston asks.
I’m still sitting on the edge of the bed, and he’s standing just inside the room looking like someone stole his puppy, and he got into a fistfight.
“Ice,” I answer.
He nods and then jogs out of the room.
It gives me a moment, but there is too much to process.
My shoulder throbs, although not as painfully as before. The alcohol is numbing the most intense suffering.
It did hurt like hell when he dug the bullet out, though. I refused to show weakness, especially in front of Langston, my killer.
Is he still going to kill me?
He hesitated to pull the bullet out. It was as difficult for him as it was for me.
A lot can change in a year which, give or take a few weeks, is what I have left. That’s the timeline he gave me.
One year.
I can get him to change his mind in a year. Get him to warm to me again like when we were kids. Get him to feel things so he can’t fathom killing me.
Langston is back.
“Do you want to move to another bedroom?” he asks. It’s clear he’s worried that I’ll have nightmares about being tied up and almost raped if we stay in here.
I shake my head. “That’s not how my nightmares work.”
He enters, carrying a bag of ice and a bowl of something with two spoons sticking out.
“Climb under the covers and sit back in the bed,” he orders.
I do.
He plops the bowl down in my lap and then puts the bag of ice on my shoulder. Finally, he climbs into the bed next to me. He sits on top of the covers, while I sit under.
He brought me a bowl of buttered pecan ice cream—my favorite.
“You should have more than just scotch in your belly.”
I smile lightly; I can’t help it.
“What’s the second spoon for?”
“Me.” He takes a bite of my ice cream before I can jerk the bowl out of his reach.
That makes us both laugh. We both need a laugh, even if it doesn’t make sense.
“Here,” I say, reaching behind my shoulder to grab the bag of ice and toss it at him.