LIFE AFTER DEATH is a strange thing. I have forbidden myself to follow Annie, to meddle in her life any more than I already have. It is a selfish mandate, fueled mainly by my desire not to know how the other half lives. To see the media storm that is no doubt surrounding her return, the images of her and her parents, her normal happy life…it will remind me too much of Summer and Trent—of the life they should have lived out—of the pieces of life I am missing out on now. It is easier for me not to look, for me to concentrate on another thing: the eye of the camera. I need to continue surviving as I did before: eighteen-hour days spent with clients, wearing out my body and soul, so I have little to think about at the end of the day except sleep.
But I am different now, The step into the outside world has poured fresh blood into my veins. I feel like Simon—the need for more more more tugging at me. At night, when I lie down on the bed, my thoughts move to loneliness before bloodshed, the yearning for arms wrapped around me stronger than death before me. It was a mistake, having Jeremy stay over those nights. I can’t stop thinking about it—his easy grin in the morning, his utter lack of anything sinister—just carefree kisses placed softly on my neck. Not even a push for sex, his moves restricted to comforting kisses and touch. A hand trailing over my neck when I opened my eyes. An arm encircling my waist and pulling me to his hard, warm body. Soft lips pressed to mine, slow kisses until my drugged mouth responded, letting him in to explore further. The heat of his breath against my hair as we spooned in my bed, his leg wrapped around me, holding my body captive in his strong and capable arms.
It’s been eight days since he left my apartment. I have spoken to him through the closed door every day since then—his deliveries resuming their steady and dependable schedule. He hasn’t pushed, hasn’t argued, hasn’t done anything but accept my regular response, his mouth twitching that gorgeous smile through my peephole view. I don’t know why I won’t open the door. I am fairly sure, in the middle of the day, with this man I have lain with, that I could control myself. He is aware of my weakness, has already shown an aptitude for defeating me in the game of combat. Plus, as evidenced by a cheerful yellow Post-it note left three days ago on one of my packages, he no longer carries box cutters. It’d be difficult for me to kill him with my bare hands. So maybe I keep the door shut to protect my heart and not his body. Whatever the reason, I haven’t opened the door and I now yearn for his touch.