He comes into my condo like he lives here, too, just walks in and closes the door behind him, setting the grocery bag on the chair by the phone. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, as if this is his place and I’m the one visiting.
I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I say, even though I’m not. I’m still shaking inside and I feel grubby hands all over me. When I move away from him and stumble over my own feet, he reaches out for my arm. “Don’t touch me.”
It comes out harsher than I intended and he frowns, almost a pout. I turn away from those eyes, those lips. “I need to take a shower.”
“Okay,” he says. I keep one hand on the wall to steady myself. “Where do you want me to put your stuff?”
I point at the kitchen as I pass by it. I hear him gather up the bag, a rustle of paper, and the
