37. A Dry Gin Kind of Girl

Laura - The house in the suburbs
“Why are you making things even harder?”
His question hangs in the cool breeze of the spring night. The implications ensue even more questions in the silence that follows. Is it hard for him to go? Or is it difficult to accept being touched by a strigoi? Though his warm hands are still pressed over mine, his thumb gently rubbing my wrist.
He sighs again and turns around. The moonlight highlights his chiseled jawline and the fullness of his lips. He glances at me, and his eyes are filled with both agony and desire. Perhaps this is only a figment of my imagination. It is simply impossible for me to tell if this is real or just my wishful thinking.
“This house is in the pack’s territory. Many other wolves live nearby. You don’t have to worry.”
This is just great! I stare at him. This isn’t what I expected him to say. Now he thinks I’m afraid and I hate playing the damsel in distress. I’m not like that, not anymore. The time when I was afraid and scared of my own shadow is far behind me in the past. And if I were to be afraid of anything, it would be him. His bite is the only thing that can kill me, and his words and actions hurt me in another way altogether, though I don’t know why.
I take a step back and push my lips together. What exactly am I doing? My original plan for meeting him had a different goal than what I'm looking for today. Is it possible that I'm this fickle?
Night birds chirp in the trees. I focus on their song, happy to concentrate on anything other than him.
Shaking my head, I mutter, "Of course." Then I turn around and go to the veranda. I have to go inside and disappear. Oh, how good it would be if I could simply vanish from the face of the earth!
“I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.”
My feet freeze in place, and I abruptly halt any movement. A tremor takes over my body and my chest heaves. I should find a way to remove the glamour I’ve cast on myself. It’s making things worse since I met Paul.
“What did you say?”
He takes a long breath before responding. "The master bedroom has been prepared especially for you. I don't want to sleep in my old room since it contains too many memories for me. I can, however, sleep on the couch in the living room."
'I said I wanted you to stay with me tonight, not in the same house as me.' This is the truth that will not leave my tongue. Instead, I murmur, "Do as you please."
I take a look around the house now that I'm back inside. There are several unopened bottles on a shelf. It's an old tradition to show off when hosting guests. It would be nice to have a drink, and because of the self-glamour, it would take my mind off things.
As Paul walks into the room, I point to the liquor rack. "Can I have one of them, or are they only for show?"
“They are all part of remaking the house as it used to be. But sure. I mean, those are easily replaceable.”
That’s as good an approval as any. The bottle of Wembley quickly disappears from the shelf along with two glasses that I settle on the table.
Paul takes a seat on the couch while I settle on the carpet on the other side of the coffee table.
His eyes soften, and his lips curve into a gentle smile. “So you’re a dry gin kind of girl.”
At least his mood seems to have lightened up a bit. Though I don’t answer since my choice is evident enough. I pour two glasses and slide one of them over to his side.
“The couch is big enough. You don’t have to sit on the floor.” His smirk widens. “I won’t bite.”
His mood swings are too much for me. For weeks, he avoided any contact with me. Today in the office, he barely stood next to me, sometimes even dodging eye contact. Here, he was cold and distant, keeping his distance at all times. And now he wants me to sit next to him? No, thank you!
"I’m feeling very comfortable as I am." I’m glad today I decided to wear pants since otherwise it would have been very hard to sit with my legs bent beneath me and be zen about it.
We both take a long gulp of gin. Paul pushes back his glass, and I refill both of them. Meanwhile, he puts his jacket on the backrest of a chair to keep it from wrinkling. This time, when he comes back to the couch, he makes himself comfortable, stretching horizontally over it as I watch him.
“This is the last one,” he says, leaning on an elbow to take the glass. “I’m tired enough as it is.”
“I don’t feel like sleeping just yet.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do strigois even sleep?”
“I sleep if I feel like it. I drink if I want to. I eat if it’s good. What more do you wanna know?”
Paul does not respond. He just reclines on the couch and closes his eyes. "What do you want to do now?" he eventually asks.
Should I be as blunt as he is and ask him to stop being so cold towards me? Nah, that feels like I’m begging him for something he’s not willing to give freely.
“You can sleep. I’ll drink and tell you a little story.”
“No one has told me bedtime stories since I was a kid. But sure, go ahead. Knock yourself out.”
He remains with his eyes closed, waiting for me to start.
This house, this rustic vibe, the mix of feelings in my heart, all make me remember another time, another me. A child listening to stories from her elders while going out with the cows on the pastures. The rumors about my grandfather worsened after his death. A walking corpse, strolling from his grave every night, only to return when the sun rises.
A wicked smile conquered my lips, thinking that maybe this isn’t exactly a bedtime story for kids who want to sleep tight tonight.