Consumed » Kai Parker

Forty Two

I'm about to tell her it's not her fault, that it's fucking ludicrous to think that way, in fact it'll only make things worse to blame yourself. Because I know Charlie, in her usual state of overthinking and anxiety, will let her guilt for not being there for her friend lead to guilt for being with me last night and push me away, despite the newly defining discussion we had.

Sure, that would be kind of, sort of, maybe just a little understandable because a loved one dying the same night we clarified that we're in a relationship sounds like a bad omen if I've ever heard one.

But I've never been particularly superstitious.

Right now, staring at the guilt on her face, I want to shake her by the shoulders, tell her that she can't let this get in the way of us, especially since us has barely had a chance to fully bloom.

I decide against this, reminding myself that I'm her boyfriend now and yelling at her when she just got news of a loss isn't what a boyfriend does. No, that's what a sociopath does.

Inhaling deeply, I start to speak, trying to offer some words of consolation. "Charlie, it's–"

"Forget it," She shakes her head, pulling her arm free of my hold. "There's no time to talk about it, I just need to shower."

She bends down to grab the clothes and undergarments she dropped, striding to the bathroom. I lift a hand in the air, causing the door to swing shut before she gets there.

Charlie jumps back with a small gasp, then slowly turns around to glare at me.

"What are you doing? Open the door."

"No."

"No?"

"You heard me."

"Kai, what–" She huffs in frustration. "What do you want?"

"To talk."

"Can it wait? Please?"

"Okay, we don't have to talk, but you need to listen." I close the distance between us, stopping a few inches in front of her. "Can you do that?"

Chewing on her lip, her eyes flick between me and the bathroom door, as if debating whether to just bolt straight through it. But, to my relief, her gaze locks with mine again and she nods, shoulders slumping.

"I can do that," she answers quietly. "But can you open the door first? So I can put on my robe? Kinda hard to have a serious conversation when I'm naked."

The slight joke she makes lacks any trace of humor, like it's too much for her right now to even try to sound upbeat. I nod, just to appease her for now, because the glumness in her expression is killing me, and lift a hand. The door opens and she goes inside, coming back out a few seconds later wrapped in a white robe with Whitmore in black print on one of the breast pockets.

"Okay." She stands in front of me, hugging her ribs. "You have my attention."

"Good. Okay, look..." I pause, my eyebrows furrowing as I wonder where to go from here, what the hell to say. It's new to me, the whole concept of being at a loss for words, battling in your mind to search for the correct combination of phrases and sentences that will succeed in getting your intentions and feelings across. I'm the guy who goes through conversations smoothly, with little struggle involved, no matter who it is I'm speaking to. I say what I think because I don't give a fuck what impact those honest thoughts could have on the person that's hearing them.

And that's still who I am. For the most part. But with her, it's a different story entirely. I want to say what I feel but with Charlie, there is so fucking much that I feel and it's seemingly impossible to say it in words that are comprehensible. I give it the best shot I can regardless, because I'm nothing if not a man that doesn't hold back. Holding back is wasteful, in my opinion, so I don't bother doing it. Whether it's to fling an insult at Damon Salvatore or to tell Charlie how I feel, being honest really is the best and most convenient policy.