Yes, I overstepped a little by Googling him. Do I regret it? Most definitely.
But he’s acting like I went snooping through his drawers in the middle of the night. This isn’t Paul’s diary we’re talking about. Like he’d even keep a diary. (Although he should. Maybe then he’d work through some of his issues and wouldn’t always act like his python cane is all the way up his ass.)
That news story I read? Public information. It’s not like I even had to dig—it took about twelve seconds on Google. The thing that’s really pissing me off is that if I had half a brain, I would have looked all of this up before arriving in Maine, before even agreeing to the job.
Maybe if I had, I would have known that Paul Langdon was worryingly close to my own age. I would have seen that senior-year portrait from his high school yearbook and known that once upon a time he was almost painfully handsome.
Of course, none of that would have prepared me for the fact that the twenty-four-year-old Paul is even more alluring to me. No number of generic news articles would have prepared me for my fierce and automatic reaction to him.
But I would have known that his injuries weren’t just the result of a horrible IED incident or a wretched ambush. If I’d done my research, I’d have known what he really went through.
Torture.
I wish I’d known.
No, I wish he’d told me. Of course, I hadn’t given him a chance to do that, now had I? Okay, so maybe he’s right to be pissed at me. I just can’t figure out how we went from cuddling and sleeping together to wanting to kill each other in the kitchen over something so unimportant in the grand scheme of things. We can work through it.
Only he isn’t talking to me.
I toss the blob of bread dough onto the counter and brace my palms against the granite as I try to catch my breath and get control of my thoughts. Flour is everywhere, and I don’t care.
“You know you actually have to touch the dough to knead it, right?” Lindy says, coming back into the kitchen.
I halfheartedly began moving the dough around again as Lindy unloads the tray containing the remains of Paul’s lunch.
I glance at the tray out of the corner of my eye.
The pasta was barely touched. He’s not eating. I know only because I keep an eye on how much food Lindy throws out, not because I actually eat with Paul. I’ve barely seen the guy in the week since our confrontation. He’s made sure of that.
Lindy hasn’t asked me why Paul and I are at odds—again—nor has she complained that she has to bring him all of his food, when I’m getting paid to do it. I’ve tried to explain, but she just pats my shoulder and tells me that there’s a spare room in the small house if I need it.
If this keeps up, I will need it. Hearing Paul yell every night without being able to go to him is killing me. I tried once; the door was locked.
Lindy and Mick have to be wondering what I’m still doing here. A caregiver who has zero contact with the person she’s supposed to be caring for? It’s only a matter of time before Paul’s father comes swooping in here telling me I’m fired.
Oh, but wait. That won’t happen, will it? Because then Paul won’t be able to continue his pathetic existence of hiding from the world while not having to contribute a single thing to society.
Why should I care if Paul is so committed to never entering the world that he’ll enter into a childish bargain with his father?
I don’t.