She groans as she stands outside the car. “Christ, my legs.”
“I offered to drive.”
“Yeah, but you know me. Can’t leave anything to chance. Not now, at least.”
I try to chuckle, but it just sounds like a weird cough. I shrug it off. “You’re just as stubborn as me.”
“Truly amazing how we managed to get along for all these years, right?”
Her humor comforts me, but I can’t quite muster up the strength to laugh. It’s been an exhausting forty-eight hours. Paranoia stings my spine every few minutes, and every time I look in the mirror, I half-expect Pavel’s car to be right behind me.
Then again, I didn’t get much sleep before. What’s the difference in me losing sleep now?
I hold my stomach as we approach the door. The sooner we get inside, the sooner I can lie down and stare at the ceiling. None of the emotions I felt back in New York have followed just yet.
Yet.
I watch Willow unlock the door and try not to pick at my cuticles.
Give it time.
The townhouse is nice, and it looks like any other guest house made for tourists. Maps of Oregon hang like passable decor next to generic landscape paintings. In the tiled kitchen, there’s a charcoal drawing of a mountain. I pause to stare at it, my cheek twitching the more I study the details.
An old conversation comes to mind.
And I shove it away immediately.
Willow shuffles past me with a few bags of groceries. “Lunch?”
“Please.”Anything so I don’t have to think about what’s on my mind.
“Coming right up.”
My nostrils flare as I continue taking in my new surroundings. The scent of cleaners and potpourri fills my lungs with every breath. And although I’m not a fan of the tile counters, the wooden tables and chairs, or the lace curtains hanging over the windows, there’s something else about this place that I can’t help notice: how regular everything looks.
It looks so…My lower lip trembles.Normal.
There aren’t the usual signs of glorious antique collecting or local art tacked elegantly to the walls. No trace of tea on the counters, not even the packaged stuff most people keep in their cupboards. Just white mugs, white plates, and silver utensils. A vase of fake flowers. In another life, I might have rolled my eyes at how basic it all looks.
I make my way into the living room and open my bag. One of the sweaters I packed spills out and I put it on, only to be overwhelmed by a familiar musk drifting from the fabric. I fight the urge to push my face into it, to take a deep breath and let the scent bury itself deep in my lungs, where it’ll never come out. It takes every last bit of willpower to let it fall from my fingers.
Willow appears in the doorway with a sandwich on a plate. “So, what’s gonna happen now?”
I grab a plate and bite into the sandwich she made. “What do you mean?”
“Your plan,” she says. “Or were you just going to stick around Oregon and hope that Pavel never finds you?”
“I mean, it’s not bad here.”
She gives me a knowing look of disapproval. “Liya.”
I offer a weak smile. “The truth is, I never had a plan.”
“You know Pavel is never going to stop looking for you, right?” She shakes her head and plops onto the couch. “And this isn’t a permanent solution.”
A lump in my throat blocks me from swallowing my food.I know.
“You can’t avoid him forever,” she continues. “He loves you, Liya. As fucked up as your relationship was, he loves you.”