The Awkward Love Song of Abigail Archer

Chapter Ten

CHAPTER 10

Dependent upon the light seeping in from the hall, Marcus paced slowly into the dark room. He reached blindly to the wall beside him for a switch, but instead knocked his head upon a hanging bulb. He cursed and tugged irritably on a thin string overhead.

Soft yellow light from the dangling bulb barely chased the dark from the small room. Marcus looked around, and agreed with the Timekeeper. To the eye, it wasn’t much, but to him the practically bare room was Eden.

In the corner of the small apartment was a narrow bed, a slight distance from a red curtained window. A dresser on the opposite wall, and a table with four metal chairs by the kitchenette, were the extent of the furnishings. Marcus hauled in a slow breath. The air, too, seemed void, closed, and stuffy, singing of long loneliness and closed doors.

He turned to see if Abigail had followed. She remained by the door, her head hung low. But she was there, and she was tired. Her slumped shoulders spoke of this fatigue, and how lightly she hugged herself told of her mental exhaustion.

It was only then, in the dark silence stretching between them, that Marcus heard it: a shuddering breath. Her shoulders didn’t tremble, but her breathing did.

He held himself very still as he watched her, and the enormity of the situation squeezed the air from his lungs. “Abigail?”

She didn’t say anything, but her arms tightened around her body a little more. He swallowed. He had to say something with which to ease her. She had to feel comfortable, unafraid, and safe.

He moistened his lips. “There’s a bed.”

As soon as he spoke the words, Marcus closed his eyes, wishing he could have bit his tongue to keep from speaking. Truly, of all the things to say? His conscience chastised him, bringing with its scorn another dispiriting thought. He tilted his head and looked beneath her veil of hair, dissecting her closed stance and unsteady breathing. His heart pounded. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

After an infinite minute, Abigail had yet to answer. Marcus lowered his eyes, feeling like a monster. It had to be true. He’d nearly killed her foster father, however repulsive the man happened to be. Furthermore, he’d demanded she go with him, never once asking her if she truly wished to go. Guilt lashed him. How could she not feel alone, uprooted, uncertain, and scared?

“Abigail—”

“No,” she said. Her voice was lower than a whisper. It should have made Marcus feel better. But, in hardly hearing her words, another sound was unmistakable. Abigail lifted her head and breathed life into his suspicions. Her reddened cheeks glistened under a coat of fresh tears and dull light. Seeing her tears hurt him, and not knowing how long she had wept in silence, scarred. While it was not the first time he’d been alone with a woman, a crying woman at that, it was the first time he had ever wanted to simply hold a woman with no promise of anything further. He stepped closer and then forced himself not to take another step. It was much too dangerous because before when he’d neared her, the noises of the outside world had kept his mind on alert, not allowing him to succumb to emotion. But what about there, in the privacy of the room? What was there to keep him from her? The low humming of the small refrigerator?

Uttering a silent prayer, and pushing a chill into his heart, he took a step back. Wanting to step near her, to comfort her, he took another.

“You’re crying,” he said, feigning disinterest.

She nodded, pushed her hair away from her face, and shrugged. “It’s been a really, really long day, and it’s all so much. I can’t seem to make sense of anything right now. Of what happened with Randy, of Mr. Owens, of you—especially you.”