We still haven’t talked about what just happened. Chris simply follows me from room to room while I busy my hands with exciting tasks like tidying up the mess or preparing a meal. I have a vague idea about the reason for his behaviour: either he wants to talk but doesn’t know where to start, or he wants to be sure that I don’t break down like a little earlier in the bathroom. But knowing he’s continuously behind me stresses me more than anything else.
“Do you want a beer?” I ask, not looking at him.
I’m embarrassed. One, because I cried like a frightened girl in front of him, me who loves to play tough. Two, because this jumpsuit on him is sexy. For some obscure reason, it has a certain effect on me. He looks vaguely like a test pilot.
He sits at the table while I finish preparing my la
