Marry Screw Kill(22)

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to love a woman like Harlow?” He runs a hand through his blond hair and fills his glass with more scotch.

“I’ve never been in love,” I confess.

“Well, it’s maddening as hell. You’ve gotta understand where I’m coming from, Sin. Harlow’s beautiful with an unassuming appeal. You should’ve heard the conversations at the hospital and club before we were officially together. Even the married doctors joined in. When I finally announced we were a couple, the talk around me stopped, but I see the way they look at her. I feel their envy. You touching her triggered something in me.”

Any man near her would elicit this response in him. It wasn’t just me. He’s jealous of other men and their feelings for Harlow and fears she may return those feelings. I don’t do relationships, but I’m smart enough to know this type of love is more of an obsession. It explains his heavy-handed control, but it doesn’t justify how he treats Harlow. His version of love has made her his captive.

“The touch was innocent,” I respond. James stretches out his arms and leans his hands against the bar top. He bows his head in defeat then looks up at me with worry lines running across his forehead.

“I suppose.” He’s not convinced yet, but it’s his own doubt and insecurity keeping him from trusting me, or any man that comes near Harlow—innocent or not.

“I’m beat.” You’re drunk. “Let’s call it a night.” Even though it’s not late, I’ve had enough and need some time to figure out what the hell has happened since I landed here. My four-week program, which I assumed would be a quiet experience, has turned into a freak show.

“I’ll show you to your room.”

James pushes off from the bar and heads to the door. He trips over the edge of a rug, but recovers quickly. We travel back down the same hallway and I grab my suitcase as we pass the entrance.

“The kitchen is off to the right. Media room to your left.” He points in various directions as he shows me the layout of the house. “All the bedrooms are upstairs.”

“Right.” I follow him up to the second floor and he leads me past several doors. The first one we walked by is shut, so I assume it is the master.

“I mentioned you borrowing a car in our emails,” James says.

“You did.” Before I met this version of you. It had sounded like a good idea a few weeks ago, but now, I’m not so sure I want to owe him a thing.

“Well, I have a white Porsche parked in the garage. It’s yours while you’re here.” He stops outside a room and turns to face me. “Believe me, you can’t rent a set of wheels like that in this town.”

“I’ve never driven a Porsche.” And I’m not sure I want to drive yours. Right now, a rent-a-wreck sounds better than a strings-attached vehicle.

“It’s a chick magnet. Not that I would know.” He waggles his brow and punches my arm hard in an attempt to be funny.

I give him a weak half-smile. Jerk.

He walks inside the room and flips on the lights. “This one’s yours.”

I notice an indention in the bed, as if someone had been lying on it and forgot to straighten the covers. James grumbles under his breath and scurries over to the bed, straightening the wrinkles.

“Sorry about that.”

“You kidding me? I never make my bed,” I laugh, but James remains stiff as he stands close by. He’s making way too much out of a few wrinkles.

“Well, it should’ve been ready for you either way.” He leads me to an open door inside the room. “Here’s the bathroom.”

“Nice,” I say as I follow him in. The shower is large enough for a party of five and has frosted glass doors. It seems over the top for a guest bath. Towels hang perfectly from racks on the wall. I laugh to myself. Once I use those towels, there’s no way in hell I’ll get them to look like that again. I’m lucky if I remember to pick the towel up off the floor.

“You should be set.” James moves to exit the bathroom and I follow behind him.

“Thanks. See you in the morning.”

After James leaves, I find the closet to stick my suitcase inside. I need to spread out my stuff, but I’m afraid Mr. Neat and Clean would object.

Once inside the closet, I notice it’s half-full with women’s clothing. Worn jeans with frayed hems hang together next to faded shirts and sweaters. I push the hangers apart and look more closely. All the items are on their last leg, not even fit for a charity donation. Continuing toward the back of the row, I come across a burgundy polo shirt and see the name “Harlow” written on the tag. It looks like an old work shirt and the size of it would overwhelm her. The clothes I’m rummaging through don’t match the stylish Harlow from this evening. These, nearly threadbare, must have belonged to her before she met my uncle.

On the shelf above me, there is a tattered brown purse. I reach for it and peek inside. A small book with dog-eared pages sits alone at the bottom. I turn it on its side and see it’s a book of Robert Frost poetry. Harlow came alive when she mentioned writing poetry at the restaurant. Maybe Frost is her inspiration. During my undergrad years, he was the only poet that made me think about the world around me and how I related to it. His words moved me.

I set the purse back up on the shelf and thumb through the pages. I find my favorite poem of his, one of his earlier ones, The Road Not Taken. The page is marked up and highlighted. It appears Harlow likes this selection too. I glance over the familiar words and stop at the last paragraph. Red hearts are drawn on the side. I read the words slowly to myself.