Repeat(9)

“You should get that shirt off,” says Ed.

“Why?”

“There’s some blood from when your cheek split.” He points at the front. “It needs to go in the wash. I’ll grab you something of mine to put on.”

I ease it up off over my bruised face, holding it out.

Mouth a tight line, he turns away, ripping the item of clothing out of my hand. “Clem, I didn’t mean . . .”

“What? You told me to give it to you.”

“Do me a favor and keep your clothes on in front of me, okay?”

I scrunch up my face. Which hurts on both sides now, courtesy of this morning’s injury. “Ow. It’s nothing you apparently haven’t seen many times before.”

“Yeah, and I don’t need to see it again. Ever.”

Huh. I give myself a quick look over. My breasts might be on the smaller side, but they look quite nice in the pale-green lace bra. It’s pretty. Previous me was into pretty. And while my stomach is far from flat, everything seems reasonably in proportion.

“Fuck’s sake, would you stop that,” he growls. “There’s nothing wrong with your body.”

“No, I didn’t think there was. So it’s a problem with you, not me. Okay.”

“No, it’s not a problem with me. Or you. It’s a problem with us.” He glares at me, his amber-colored eyes growing darker. They’re very expressive. How the light in them tells of his mood, reflecting some of his thoughts. Right now, he’s angry. Again.

People in general fascinate me. Yet Ed takes it to a whole new level. I don’t know if it’s the knowledge that we have history or just his hotness. Truth is, I could watch him for hours. No, days. With the bonus that attempting to read him distracts me from feeling how every bit of me from the neck up is hurting.

“Were you always this moody?” I ask, genuinely curious.

In lieu of responding, he walks off into the back hallway, shaking his head. I do my best not to stare at his ass, despite it seeming to be particularly spectacular. Tight. A nice handful, but not too much. It’s a definite, I approve of his ass.

Meanwhile, Gordon looks between us before deciding to stick with me. Good dog.

The place has high ceilings and an open living area. Living room followed by a kitchen and dining area. It looks recently renovated. White rectangular tiles in the kitchen with black grout between. White cupboards, a shiny black counter, and aluminum appliances and pendant lights.

He doesn’t have a lot of furniture, but what he has is nice. Two dark gray sofas, chunky wooden coffee table, and matching dining table and chairs. Paintings and drawings hang on the walls. All done by the same artist, which is undoubtedly him. No tattoo designs, maybe he keeps those at the shop. Instead, these are portraits and landscapes or cityscapes. A picture of the front of his shop with people wandering by on the sidewalk. Gordon sitting outside on the grass rendered in exquisite detail. The man is talented.

Next in the house comes a small hallway with rooms opening off to each side. A similarly renovated bathroom, an office, art studio, or small spare-bedroom type space, and the main bedroom. I reach the doorway of the last just in time to have a T-shirt flung at me.

“Thanks.”

A grunt. “Lie down; I’ll get the icepack.”

His bed is huge with dark blue sheets and comforter. Through the open closet door, I can see half of the space is still unoccupied. Like a line has been drawn down the middle. We only lived together for a bit over half a year, but I guess previous me just moved out what was actually a short time ago. It’d be better if he’d shifted his stuff and taken up all of the space. Because if he’s still processing (a Doctor Patel word) the breakup, then I really shouldn’t be here. This isn’t even remotely fair to him. Then again, it’s not like I’m having the best time either.

I pull the T-shirt over my head and take a seat. Gordon stands by the side of the bed, resting his chin on the mattress. Guess he’s not allowed on. After a moment, he sinks to the floor with a heavy sigh and closes his eyes.

Ed enters with a bag of frozen vegetables in one hand, a glass of water and Tylenol bottle in the other. The water and painkillers he sets on the small bedside table, while the mix of peas, corn, and beans is gently applied to the side of my face. After this, he sits down at the bottom of the bed, well away from me. I think we both appreciate the space.

“Thanks,” I say, lying back.

He gives a nod.

My fingers twist and turn in the hem of his black T-shirt. “I like the darker colors, but all I seem to own is light, happy shit. Why is that?”

“It’s what you liked at the time.”

On the wall is a framed drawing of a woman’s back, the line of her spine, the flare of her hips, and curve of her ass done in simple lines.

“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding at the picture.

“Just a girl.”

“Wasn’t I jealous, having a picture of another woman hanging in your bedroom?”

He turns away, brows raised. “If you were, you never said anything. Then again, getting you to say what you were thinking used to be fucking impossible. Now it all just comes out.”

“I don’t mean to upset you.”

“I know. There’s no filter, huh?”

“Pretty much. Or at least, it’s at a reduced working capacity. Sorry about taking my top off before.” I stare at the ceiling with the eye that isn’t covered in frozen goods. “I heard a story about a woman who was a mediator, really good at dealing with people, getting them to find common ground. She had a bad car crash. Total personality change. She just became this nasty person who said horrible things all the time. Couldn’t help herself. Isn’t that sad?”