Granted, me interrupting his reading to chat sort of counteracts that effect. I try to give him his peace, I really do. It’s just that I sort of underestimated the effect that all this solitude would have on me. I was in such a hurry to escape the world that I didn’t stop to think that escape often goes hand in hand with loneliness.
I’m not totally alone. I have coffee with Lindy almost every morning, and I’ve run into Mick a handful of times. I’ve even tried to make friends with the local girls who come in to clean every Wednesday, and they’re chatty enough.
But my only real companion is Paul. I’ve been here for two weeks now, and although he spends plenty of time avoiding me, I see him at least every morning for our run and gym time, as well as every afternoon for reading.
It’s what I should be doing. I get paid to be a companion, after all. The scary part is that I think I’d be seeking him out even if nobody was paying me to. I think I might like him. As a person.
I’m not so sure it’s the same for him, but every day it gets a little easier to coax him into conversation, so I like to think I’m making some progress, at least on the friend front.
On the other front? Well, he hasn’t tried to touch me. Not once. Not since that night.
I tell myself I’m glad.
“Can I ask you something?” I ask him.
He grunts.
“Why does your father think you need a caretaker? I mean, you make it clear that you neither need nor want anyone.”
I half hope that he’ll deny it, but he doesn’t.
“I told you that first day why my father sends all of you up here,” he says irritably.
“The suicide watch thing?” I say incredulously. “Look, I don’t mean to make light of a serious topic, but pissy as you are, you hardly look like you’ve given up on life. A social, normal life, perhaps. But not life itself.”
His eyes lock on the flames of the fire and I study the tense line of his jaw. He always sits in the chair so that I see only his “good” side, and it really is an almost painfully handsome profile.
Paul’s silent for so long that I think he’s going to ignore my question, as he does often when I push the envelope and get too personal. But then he answers, his voice low and gruff.
“He doesn’t want me to be alone.”
I keep my expression blank, but I’m surprised by the admission. He hardly ever mentions Harry Langdon, and when his father’s name does come up, it’s generally accompanied by a sneer. This is the first time he’s even hinted that his father might be acting in Paul’s interest.
“I think that’s probably a pretty typical paternal instinct,” I say softly.
“Which would be awesome if I were twelve,” he mutters.
“Don’t get your boxers all in a snarl about this, but do you really have the right to be petulant when you’re living on his dime?”
His already tense jawline goes even tighter for a second, but then he shrugs. “What’s your suggestion? My leg prevents me from doing anything involving physical work, and the repulsive face is a little too distracting for the corporate world, don’t you think?”
“That’s crap. Sure, professional soccer is probably out, and you can take modeling off the list, but you could make a living if you wanted to.”
“Sure. I could be a caretaker. That’s a great career path.”
“Knock it off,” I snap. “At least I’m doing something.”
“All out of the goodness of your heart, right? You just care so much about other people, is that it?” He leans forward slightly, his eyes mean, and I hate that he seems to see right through me.
“I care.”
“About me?” He gives a sick semblance of a smile, and I’m wondering how the hell this friendly, casual conversation veered so far off track so quickly.
“About people,” I grind out.
“Of course,” he says, leaning back in his chair, deceptively relaxed. “Olivia Middleton, the reformed do-gooder.”
How does he know I’m reformed? “We’re not talking about me.”
“Maybe I want to,” he says.