💜📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘💜: Terms of Endearment by Larry McMurtry

Summary:
In this acclaimed novel that inspired the Academy Award-winning motion picture, Larry McMurtry created two unforgettable characters who won the hearts of readers and moviegoers everywhere: Aurora Greenway and her daughter Emma.

Aurora is the kind of woman who makes the whole world orbit around her, including a string of devoted suitors. Widowed and overprotective of her daughter, Aurora adapts at her own pace until life sends two enormous challenges her way: Emma's hasty marriage and subsequent battle with cancer. Terms of Endearment is the Oscar-winning story of a memorable mother and her feisty daughter and their struggle to find the courage and humor to live through life's hazards -- and to love each other as never before.

Chapter 1
1.

"The success of a marriage invariably depends on the woman," Mrs. Greenway said.

"It does not," Emma said, not looking up. She was sitting in the middle of her living-room floor sorting a large pile of laundry.

"It most certainly does," Mrs. Greenway said, assuming a stern expression. She tightened her lips and narrowed her brows. Emma was letting herself go again -- a breach of standards -- and she had always endeavored to meet ally breach of standards with a stern expression, if only briefly.

Sternness, she knew, did not become her -- at least it didn't entirely become her -- and Aurora Greenway, as she herself knew quite well, was not one to do the unbecoming -- not unless it was a matter of strictest duty. Yet strange as it sometimes seemed-to both of them -- Emma was her daughter, and her behavior was a matter of strictest duty.

Aurora's face was more plump than not, and despite forty-nine years that seemed to her to have consisted largely of irritations and disappointments, she still almost always managed to look pleased with herself. The facial muscles necessary to a display of true sternness were called into play so seldom that they were somewhat reluctant to stir, but nonetheless, when the need arose, she could be for short periods extremely stern. Her forehead was high, her cheekbones strong, and her blue eyes -- usually so dreamy and, Emma would have thought, vacantly complacent -- were capable of sudden angry fires.

In this case, she felt that only a little narrowing of the brows would be necessary.

"I don't believe there's a decent garment in that whole pile of laundry," she said, with her own lightay?" Emma said, poking in the clothes pile. As usual, several socks had failed to mate.

"Raather vexed," Aurora repeated, on the chance that there was something wrong with her daughter's ears. She had put the full weight of Boston behind her "raather," and was not disposed to have it ignored. Emma, who possessed -- among other unladylike qualities -- an annoying interest in precision, would have insisted that it was only the full weight of New Haven, but quibbles of that sort cut no ice with Aurora. Boston was hers to employ, and the full weight of it was meant to strike thunder. Had they been in Boston, or perhaps even New Haven -- any place where life could be kept in hand -- no doubt it would have; but the two of them, mother and daughter, were in Emma's hot, muggy oversmall living room in Houston, Texas, where the full weight of Boston seemed to strike nothing at all. Emma went on distractedly counting socks.

"You're letting yourself go again," Aurora said. "You're not taking pains with your appearance. Why won't you diet?"

"Eating makes me less frustrated," Emma said. "Why won't you stop buying clothes? You're the only person I know who has seventy-five of everything."

"The women of our family have always prided themselves on their dress," Aurora said. "All except you, at least. I am not a seamstress. I do not propose to sew."

"I know you don't," Emma said. She herself was wearing jeans and one of her husband's T-shirts.

"That garment you have on top of you is so disgusting I scarcely know how to refer to it," Aurora said. "It belongs on a pickaninny, not on a daughter of mine. Of course I buy clothes. The selection of a tasteful wardrobe is a duty, not a pastime."

With that , Aurora lifted her chin. When justifying herself to her daughter she often liked to assume a touch of majesty. Emma was seldom impressed, and the look on her face at that moment smacked of defiance.

"Seventy-five tasteful wardrobes is a pastime," Emma said. "I reserve judgment about the tasteful part too. Anyway, what happened about your female problem?"

"Stop it! Don't talk about it!" Aurora said. In her indignation she not only sat up but attempted an outraged flounce, causing the old couch to creak loudly. It was not merely the moral weight of Boston that she embodied.

"All right!" Emma said. "Good God! You told me you were going to the doctor. I just asked. You don't have to break the couch."

"You needn't have mentioned it," Aurora said, genuinely upset. Her lower lip was trembling. She was not ordinarily a prudish woman, but lately all mention of sex upset her; it made her feel that her whole life was wrong, and she didn't like to feel that way.

"You're absolutely ridiculous," Emma said. "Why do you have to be so touchy? Shall we correspond about it?"

"I am not ill, if you must know," Aurora said. "Not ill in the least." She held out her glass. "However, I should like some more iced tea."

Emma sighed, took the glass, got up, and left the room. Aurora lay back down, almost depressed. She had her strong days and her weak days, and she had begun to feel a weak day coming on. Emma had not anticipated her wants in any way -- why were children so incapable of keeping their minds on parents? She was in the mood for a fit of despond, but her daughter, determined to thwart her at every turn, came back immediately with a glass of iced tea. She had stuck a sprig of mint in the glass and, pe rhaps as a gesture of contrition, had brought a little dish of sassafras candy -- one of the several candies that her mother particularly enjoyed.

"That's sweet," Aurora said, taking a piece.

Emma smiled. Her mother, she knew, had been about to go into a fit -- a lonely-widow, unappreciated-mother fit. The candy had been a brilliant stroke. The week before she had squandered a whole dollar and sixty-eight cents on a variety of it, all of which she had hidden and about half of which she had already eaten herself. Flap, her husband, would not have looked kindly on such an expenditure. He professed strict ideas about tooth decay but would undoubtedly just have spent the money on his own vices, which were beer and paperbacks. Emma was devil-may-care when it came to teeth, and liked to have candy around to stave off fits -- her mother's or her own.

Aurora, her little sinking spell conquered, had already drifted back into happy indolence and was gazing around the living room, hoping to find something new to criticize.

"The reason I brought up the doctor was because I went yesterday myself," Emma said, settling herself on the floor again. "Maybe I've got some good news."

"I hope he's persuaded you to diet," Aurora said. "No one should be so intractable as to reject the advice of their physician. Dr. Ratchford has had long years of experience and except where I am concerned it's been my observation that his advice is invariably good. The sooner you start to diet the happier person you'll be."

"Why do you always make an exception of yourself?" Emma asked.

"Because I know myself best," Aurora said serenely. "I certainly wouldn't allow a physician to know me this well."

"Maybe you've got yourse lf fooled," Emma suggested. The laundry really was depressing. All Flap's shirts were worn out.

"I have not," Aurora said. "I do not permit myself delusions. I never try to whitewash the fact that you married badly."

"Oh, shut up," Emma said. "I married okay. Anyway you just said two minutes ago that the success of a marriage invariably depends on the woman. To use your very words. Maybe I'll make this one a success."

Aurora looked blank. "Now you've made me lose my train of thought," she said.

Emma snickered. "That was thought?" she said.

Aurora took another candy. She looked aloof. Sternness might present problems, but aloofness was her element. Life often required it of her. In gathering after gathering, when her sensibilities were affronted, she had found it necessary to raise her eyebrows and cast a chill. There was little justice. It sometimes seemed to her that if she were remembered at all it would probably only be for the chills she had cast.

"I have often been complimented on the clarity of my expression," she said.

"You didn't let me tell you my good news," Emma said.

"Oh, yes, you've decided to diet, just as I'd hoped," Aurora said. "That is good news."

"Damn it, I didn't go to Dr. Ratchford to talk about dieting," Emma said. "I don't want to diet. I went to find out if I'm pregnant, and it looks like I am. That's what I've been trying to tell you for an hour."

"What!" Aurora said, looking at Emma. Her daughter was smiling, and had said the word "pregnant." Aurora had just taken a sip of iced tea -- she almost choked. "Emma" she yelled. Life had struck again, and just when she was almost comfortable. She sprang up as if jabbed by a pin, but fell back heavily, breaking the saucer and causing her almost empty tea glass to spin around erratically on the rugless floor, like a child's top.

"You're not!" she cried.

"I think so," Emma said. "What's the matter with you?"

"Oh, God," Aurora said, clutching her stomach with both hands.

"What's wrong, Momma?" Emma asked, for her mother looked genuinely stricken.

"Oh, my iced tea jiggled when I fell," Aurora said. "I don't know." Blood was rushing to her head, and she began to hyperventilate. She could only breathe in gasps.

"Of course that's wonderful for you, dear," she said, feeling terrible. It was a shock, it wasn't right -- something was out of order, and she felt confusion closing in on her. Always she fought confusion, yet it seemed to lie in wait for her, no matter where she went.

"Oh, God!" she said, wrenching herself into a sitting position. Her hair, which she had more or less caught in a bun, came completely loose, and she opened the neck of her robe to assure herself more air.

"Momma, stop it, I'm just pregnant," Emma yelled, angered that her mother would indulge herself in a fit after she had been so generous with the sassafras candy.

"Just pregnant!" Aurora cried, confusion turning suddenly to rage. "You...negligent..." But words failed her, and to Emma's intense annoyance she began to smite her forehead with the back of her hand. Aurora had been raised in an era of amateur theatricals and was not without her stock of tragic gestures. She continued to smite her forehead vigorously, as she always did when she was very upset, wincing each time at the pain it gave her hand.

"Stop that," Emma cried, standing up. "Stop smiting your goddamn forehead, Momma! You know I hate that!"

"And I hate y ou," Aurora cried, abandoning all reason. "You're not a thoughtful daughter! You never have been a thoughtful daughter! You never will be a thoughtful daughter!"

"What did I do?" Emma yelled, beginning to cry. "Why can't I be pregnant? I'm married."

Aurora struggled to her feet and faced her daughter, meaning to show her such scorn as she had never seen before, "You may call this marriage but I don't," she yelled. "I call it squalor!"

"We can't help it!" Emma said, "It's all we can afford."

Aurora's lip began to tremble. Scorn got lost -- everything was lost. "Emma, it's not the point...you shouldn't have...it's not the point at all," she said, suddenly on the verge of tears.

"What's the point then?" Emma Said. "Just tell me. I don't know."

"Mee!" Aurora cried, with the last of her fury. "Don't you see? My life is not settled. Me!"

Emma winced, as she always did when her mother cried "Mee!" at the world. The sound was as primitive as a blow. But as her mother's chin be an to shake and pure fury began its mutation into pure tearfulness, she understood a little and put out her arm.

"Who will I ever...get now?" Aurora cried. "What man would want a grandmother? If you could...have waited...then I might have...got somebody."

"Oh, dear," Emma said. "Aw, Momma, stop that." She went on crying herself, but only because she had a sudden fear of laughing. Only her mother did that to her, and always at the most unlikely times. She knew she was the one who ought to feel outraged or hurt -- probably she would when she thought about it. But her mother never had to think; she was just outraged or hurt, immediately, and with a total purity of feeling that Emma had never been able to command. It alw ays happened.

Emma gave up. She let herself be beaten once again. She dried her eyes just as her mother burst into tears. The whole fit was ridiculous, but it didn't matter. The look on her mother's face -- an utter conviction of utter ruin -- was too real. The look might not last five minutes -- seldom did -- but there it was, on a face that Emma felt sure must be the most helplessly human face that she or anyone she knew had ever had to confront. The sight of her mother looking blank with distress had always caused whoever was handy to come rushing up at once with whatever love they had available in them. No one had ever been able to stand to see her mother looking that way, Emma least of all, and only love would change it. She began immediately to make loving sounds, and her mother, as usually, tried to fight her off.

"No, get away," Aurora said. "Fetuses. Ugh. Yick." She recovered her capacity for motion and floundered across the room, waving her hands and making swatting motions, as if she were knocking tiny batlike embryos out of the air. She didn't know what was wrong, but it was a blow at her life. She knew that much.

"See! Now I'll lose all my suitors!" she yelled, turning for a last moment of defiance.

"Now, Momma...now, Momma, it's not that bad," Emma kept saying as she advanced.

When Emma finally cornered her, in the bedroom, Aurora took the only course open to her: she flung herself on the bed, and her light pink garment billowed down after her like a sail falling. She sobbed for five minutes uncontrollably, and for five more with varying degrees of control, while her daughter sat on the bed beside her rubbing her back and telling her over and over again what a dear, wonderful person she was.

"Now, aren't you ashamed of yourself?" Emma asked when her mother finally stopped crying and uncovered her face.

"Not in the least." Mrs. Greenway said, pushing back her hair. "Hand me a mirror."

2.

Emma did, and Aurora sat up and with a cool, unsentimental eye inspected the damage to her face. She rose without a word and disappeared into the bathroom; water ran for some while. When she emerged, a towel around her shoulders, Emma had just finished folding the clothes.

Aurora settled herself on the couch again, mirror in hand. There had been doubtful moments, but her image had somehow struggled back to where she thought it ought to be, and she merely glanced at herself thoughtfully a time or two before turning her gaze upon her daughter. In fact, Aurora felt quite ashamed of her outburst. All her life she had been prone to outbursts, a habit which ran contrary to her preferred view of herself as a rational person. This outburst, considering its cause, or at least its starting point, seemed particularly unworthy of her. Still, she did not propose to apologize until she had considered the matter carefully -- not that her daughter expected an apology. Emma sat quietly by her neatly folded clothes.

"Well, my dear, I must say you've behaved rather independently," Aurora said. "Still, the times being what they are, I suppose I should have expected it."

"Momma, it has nothing to do with the times," Emma said. "You got pregnant, didn't you?"

"Not consciously," Aurora said. "Not with unseemly haste either. You're only twenty-two."

"Now stop it, just stop it," Emma said. "You're not going to lose your suitors."

Aurora's expression was once again a little bemused, once again a little aloof. "I can't imagine why I should care," she said. "All of them are miles beneath me. I'm not at all sure that's why I cried. The shock may have made me jealous, for all I know. I always meant to have more children myself. Is Thomas coming home soon?"

"I want you to call him Flap, please." Emma said. "He doesn't like to be called Thomas."

"Sorry," Aurora said. "I don't like using nicknames, even charming ones, and my son-in-law's is hardly charming. It sounds like part of a loincloth."

Emma gave up again. "He should be here any minute," she said.

"Thomas is not likely to be prompt," Aurora said. "He was late on several occasions while you were engaged." She stood up and picked up her purse.

"I'm leaving at once," she said. "I doubt if you'll mind. Where are my shoes?"

"You didn't wear any," Emma said. "You were barefooted when you came in."

"Remarkable," Aurora said. "They must have been stolen right off my feet. I am hardly the sort to leave my house without shoes."

Emma smiled. "You do it all the time," she said. "It's because all seventy-five pairs of them hurt your feet."

Aurora didn't deign to reply. Her departures, like her moods, were unpremeditated and always quite abrupt. Emma got up and followed her mother out the door, down the steps, and along the driveway. It had come a little summer shower and the grass and flowers were still wet. The lawns up and down the street were a brilliant green.

"Very well, Emma," Aurora said. "If you're going to contradict me I suppose it's a good thing I'm leaving. We should inevitably quarrel. I'm sure you'll find my shoes the minute I'm gone."

"Why didn't you look for them yourself if you're so sure they're there?" Emma sa id.

Aurora looked aloof. Her seven-year-old black Cadillac was parked, as always, several yards from the curb. She had had a lifelong horror of scraping her tires. The Cadillac was old enough, in her view, to pass for a classic antique, and she always paused a moment before she got in, to admire its lines. Emma walked around the car and stood looking at her mother, whose lines, in their way, were also classic. West Main Street, in Houston, was never very busy, and no cars disturbed their silent contemplation.

Aurora got in, adjusted her seat, which never seemed to stay the same distance from the pedals, and managed to insert her key in the ignition, a trick only she could manage. Years before she had been forced to use the key to pry open a screen door, and since then it had been slightly bent. Perhaps by now the ignition was bent too -- in any case Aurora was firmly convinced that the bentness of the key was all that had kept the car from being stolen many times.

She looked out her window and there was Emma standing quietly in the street, as if waiting for something. Aurora felt inclined to be merciless. Her son-in-law was a young man of no promise, and in the two years that she had known him his manners had not improved, nor had his treatment of her daughter. Emma was too poor and too fat and looked awful in his T-shirts, which, had he any respect, he would not have allowed her to wear. Her hair had never been one of her glories, but at the moment it was a distinct stringy mess. Aurora felt inclined to be quite merciless. She paused a moment before putting on her sunglasses.

"Very well, Emma," she said once again. "You needn't stand there expecting congratulations from me. I was not once c onsulted. You have made your bed. You no longer have an open destiny. Besides, you're far too stubborn to be a parent. Had you cared to take me into your confidence a little sooner, I could have told you that. But no, not once did you consult me. You haven't even a proper residence -- that place you live in is just the top of a garage. Infants have enough respiratory problems without having to live with cars beneath them. It isn't likely to do much for your figure either. Children never think of these things. I am still your mother, you know."

"I know, Momma," Emma said, stepping close to the car. To Aurora's surprise she didn't argue, did not defend herself. She merely stood by the car, in the awful T-shirt, looking, for the first time in years, mild and obedient. Emma looked down at her quietly, in the manner of a proper daughter, and Aurora noticed again something she was always forgetting: that her child had the loveliest eyes, green, with lights in them. They were the eyes of her own mother, Amelia Starrett, who had been born in Boston. And she was so young, really, Emma.

Suddenly, to Aurora's terror, life seemed to bolt straight from her grip. Something flung her heart violently, and she felt alone. She no longer felt merciless, she just -- She didn't know, something was gone, nothing was certain, she was older, she had not been granted control, and what would happen? She had no way to see how things would end. In her terror she flung out her arms and caught her daughter. For a moment the only thing she knew was the cheek she was kissing, the girl she was hugging to her; and then, abruptly, her heart settled back and she noticed, quite to her surprise, that she had pulled Emma half through the window of the car.

"Oh, oh," Emma said repeatedly.

"What's wrong?" Aurora asked, releasing her.

"Nothing," Emma said. "I just bumped my head on the car."

"Oh. I wish you weren't so careless, Emma," Aurora said. She had never that she could remember lost so much dignity so quickly, and she scarcely knew what to do to recover it. Ideally she would have driven straight away, but the shock, or whatever it was, had left her shaken. She didn't feel quite up to working the pedals. Even when at her best she sometimes forgot to work them, and did inconvenient things to cars that stopped in her way. Often people shouted at her at such times.

Besides, it was not the moment to drive away. In her panic she felt sure she had given her daughter the upper hand, and she was not disposed to leave until she had it back. She twisted her rearview mirror around until she could see herself in it, and she waited patiently for her features to compose themselves again. It certainly was not turning out to be one of her better days.

Emma watched, rubbing her bumped head. She had gotten her due, more or less, but she could see that her mother had no intention of letting her keep it.

"You don't have to tell your boy friends for a while, you know," she said, "You rarely let me meet them anyway. I could probably have the kid off to prep school before they suspect a thing."

"Humph," Aurora said, combing her hair. "In the first place the child, if there is to be one, will almost certainly be a girl. That's customary in our family. In the second place they are not my boy friends, they are my suitors, and you will please refer to them as such, if you must refer to them at all."

"Whatever you say," Emma said.

A urora had wonderful hair -- it was auburn and abundant, and had always been her daughter's envy. Arranging it invariably left her looking pleased, and soon she looked pleased again. Despite all, she had kept her looks, and looks were a great consolation. She rapped the steering wheel with the back of her comb.

"You see, I told you Thomas would be late," she reminded Emma. "I can't wait any longer. If I don't rush I'll miss my shows."

She elevated her chin several degrees and bestowed upon her daughter a slightly impish grin. "As for you," she said.

"As for me, what?"

"Oh, nothing," Aurora said, "Nothing. You've brought this upon me now. There is nothing more to say. No doubt I'll manage somehow."

"Stop trying to make me feel guilty," Emma said. "I have my rights, and you're no martyr. It's not like the stake and the pyre await you around the corner."

Aurora ignored the remark -- it was her custom to ignore all cleverness of that sort.

"No doubt I'll manage somehow," she said again, in a tone which was meant to indicate that she considered herself absolved of all responsibility for her own future. She was, for the moment, rather cheerful, but she wanted it clearly understood that if anything bad happened to her in what remained of her life the fault must be laid at doorsteps other than her own.

To forestall argument, she started the car. "Well, dear," she said, "at least it may force you to diet. Please oblige me and have something done to your hair. Perhaps you ought to dye it. Honestly, Emma. I think you'd look better bald."

"Leave me alone," Emma said, "I'm resigned to my hair."

"Yes, that's the trouble with you," Aurora said. "You're resigned to far too much. That garment you' re wearing verges on the pathetic. I wish you'd go take it off. I've never allowed myself to be resigned to anything that wasn't delightful, and nothing about your life is delightful that I can see. You must make some changes."

"I think they're being made for me," Emma said.

"Tell Thomas he might be more prompt," Aurora said. "I must sail. My shows won't wait, I hope I don't meet any policemen."

"Why?"

"They look at me wrong," Aurora said. "I really don't know why. I've never hurt one." She took another gratifying look at her coiffure and twisted the mirror more or less back into place.

"I imagine it's that negligent look you cultivate," Emma said.

"Pooh, I'm going. You've delayed me long enough," Aurora said. She dismissed her daughter with an airy wave and peered down the street to see whether any obstructions had been put in her path. A small green foreign car had just chugged past, but that was minor. Probably if she honked loudly enough it would turn into a driveway and let her by. Such cars ought to be driven on sidewalks anyway -- there was little enough room in the streets for American cars.

"Bye, Momma, come again," Emma said, for form's sake.

Aurora didn't hear. She seized the steering wheel commandingly and poked her foot at the appropriate pedal. "Little Aurora," she said fondly as she drove away.

A mother-daughter relationship survives years of rivalry and romantic problems.

Release Date: December 9, 1983
Release Time: 132 minutes

Director: James L Brooks

Cast:
Shirley MacLaine as Aurora Greenway
Debra Winger as Emma Greenway-Horton
Jack Nicholson as Garrett Breedlove
Danny DeVito as Vernon Dahlart
Jeff Daniels as Flap Horton
John Lithgow as Sam Burns
Lisa Hart Caroll as Patsy Clark
Huckleberry Fox as Ted "Teddy" Horton
Troy Bishop as Tom "Tommy" Horton
Megan Morris as Melanie Horton
Kate Charleson as Janice
Albert Brooks as Rudyard

Awards:
56th Academy Awards -- April 9, 1984 
Best Picture - James L. Brooks - Won
Best Director - James L. Brooks - Won
Best Actress - Shirley MacLaine - Won
Best Actress - Debra Winger - Nominated
Best Supporting Actor - John Lithgow - Nominated
Best Supporting Actor - Jack Nicholson - Won
Writing Adapted Screenplay - James L. Brooks - Won
Best Art Direction - Polly Platt, Harold Michelson, Tom Pedigo, and Anthony Mondell - Nominated
Film Editing - Richard Marks - Nominated
Original Music Score - Michael Gore - Nominated
Best Sound - Donald O. Mitchell, Rick Kline, Kevin O'Connell, and James R. Alexander - Nominated

38th BAFTAs -- March 5, 1985

Best Actress in a Leading Role - Shirley MacLaine - Nominated

41st Golden Globes -- January 28, 1984
Best Motion Picture - Drama - Won
Best Director - James L. Brooks - Nominated
Best Actress - Motion Picture Drama - Shirley MacLaine - Won
Best Actress - Motion Picture Drama - Debra Winger - Nominated
Best Supporting Actor - Jack Nicholson - Won
Best Screenplay - Motion Picture - James L. Brooks - Won

Larry McMurtry
Larry Jeff McMurtry is an American novelist, essayist, bookseller and screenwriter whose work is predominantly set in either the old West or in contemporary Texas. He is known for his 1975 novel Terms of Endearment, his 1985 Pulitzer Prize-winning novel Lonesome Dove, a historical saga that follows ex-Texas Rangers as they drive their cattle from the Rio Grande to a new home in the frontier of Montana, and for co-writing the adapted screenplay for Brokeback Mountain. Lonesome Dove was adapted into a television miniseries and both the films of Terms of Endearment and Brokeback Mountain won Academy Awards.

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💜⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳💜: Hidden in Darkness by Alice Winters

Summary:

In Darkness #1

Felix

I never thought I’d be a caretaker for a recently blinded man, but I’m prepared to show him that I’m phenomenal at this job… or at least adequate. I’m thrilled for a chance to turn my life around, yet the moment I meet Lane, I realize that this man is going to try his very best to make me quit.

Too bad he doesn’t know how stubborn I am.

Lane is depressed, rude, and difficult to be around. But I soon discover that what Lane needs isn’t a caretaker, it’s a person to treat him like he used to be treated. And I might be just the man for the job… until I get attacked.

Someone wants to keep Lane quiet, and staying by his side won’t be easy… but I’m willing to fight for it (and show off that I’m not above stealing a thing or two to accomplish that). Even if it involves kidnapping, pew pews, and some overwhelmingly bad ideas, I will do just about anything because Lane is there for me unlike anyone else has ever been. I might be out of my element, but one thing I’m sure about is that I don’t want to leave Lane… even if it costs me my life.

Original Review November Book of the Month 2019:
A couple of weeks ago I went into one of the M/M book recommendation groups on Facebook and asked for 2 different type of books and Alice Winters' In Darkness series was rec'd for both of them coupled with follow bloggers that I have always valued their opinions on recs have talked great things about her work, I knew it was time I gave her a try.  What took me so long to do so I'll never know because her writing is great.  Character chemistry, humor, danger, romance, heart - it's all here.  Hidden in Darkness is A-Freakin'-Mazing!!!

On the surface Lane is  . . . well to be ladylike, a jerk but he has reason to behave the way he does having been recently blinded after a lifetime of sight can't be an easy thing to adjust to especially as we learn more about his occupation and the things he did.  Felix is a smarta . . . well once again to be ladylike😉, brash, cocky, cheeky - you get the picture.  Together they are a perfect fit, they are exactly what the other needs even if they both fight it, the chemistry is instantaneous.  Having said all that I still wanted to whack their heads together many, many times😉😉.

As I said above I was asking for recs on Facebook and one of the recs was a Nick and Nora Charles-like chemistry, well Felix and Lane definitely have that.  Their bickering banter is hilarious, their differing detecting styles is dangerously effective, and their lust-filled attraction is explosive.  Put these all together and Felix and Lane are highly addictive.

Now the other rec I asked for was caregiving and though Felix's approach to Lane is a bit unorthodox at times it fits with Lane's personality and Felix takes his job seriously, even if it doesn't always appear so.  It is the unorthodox moments that you realize Felix isn't only helping Lane and putting up with his crap but he's also trying to teach Lane that being blind isn't the end of living.  It may take a while and Lane may fight it every step of the way but before you know it he is trying to prove to others that he can still be useful all the while never losing that snarky spark that brought him and Felix together.

Now whether the bad guys and life in general allows the pair to continue forward is something you will have to read for yourself and trust me you will definitely want to read their journey.  Hidden in Darkness is only the beginning of Lane and Felix' story and as much as I want to jump right in to the next installment unfortunately I'll have to wait until after the holidays but it will definitely be one of the first things I read once my Christmas 2019 reading list is done.  As I said before, this is my first Alice Winters story but it won't be my last.

Original Audiobook Review September 2020:

Felix and Lane are still on fire, their banter is even better the second time and Joel Leslie's narration brings an added extra level of entertaining spice to their snark and cuddle routine. Definitely will be enjoying this series for years to come.

RATING:

Prologue
Lane
I know I have to run.

I know I have to get away.

But I can’t. I can barely move.

My hand hits my leg, and I’m shocked by how close it is. I jerk my hand back as everything compresses around me until I feel like I can’t breathe, but I can’t let the darkness take me. Not yet. 

I know that I have to move. 

There’s noise outside the room. I can hear it, but it’s getting farther and farther away from me. Desperately, I grip onto the noise since it’s the only thing that feels real at this moment. 

Calm down, Lane. This is what you’re trained to do. 

Is it? Am I trained for situations like this? Situations where I have been thrown into the darkness, where the walls collapse down tight on top of me until I can’t breathe? It’s almost bad enough that I can forget the throbbing that is consuming every inch of my body. 

My hand is shaking as I strain my fingers in an attempt to reach down and touch my leg. My pants are wet, but I could have figured that out without even touching them. My wrist aches against the restraint, so I give in, letting myself rest at a more comfortable angle. 

I need help. I need medical attention. 

I need to get out. 

I need to live. 

The duct tape around my wrist is wet, slick with blood. I pull on it as the bruises scream, but I can’t stop because I don’t know when he’ll come back. 

Five hours? 

Five minutes? 

Five seconds? 

I need to get out.

Straining, I twist and pull my left arm as the tape bunches. The struggling is causing the blood to run against the tape until it begins to slide. My aching hand screams as I twist and pull until I feel it start to give. I pull it free and slump down in the chair. 

Now just one more hand. 

I feel like I’m going to pass out, and for a moment, I have to focus on staying alert. 

My fingers are shaking as I reach over until my hand bumps into the arm of the chair. This one is tight against the chair instead of loose like the other. The tape on this wrist is dry, so I run my fingers over it until I feel a slight catch. I can’t tell if it’s a ripple in the tape or the end of it, but I begin to dig at it with my fingernails. Each bump of my left hand against my right makes it ache. My hand feels like it’s broken, but I don’t think it is. All I know is that each tug of the tape makes me want to scream, so I grit my teeth and pull. I even my breath, breathing in for three seconds, breathing out for three seconds. 

I can’t pass out. 

My hand goes around and around, tugging and pulling at the tape, but I can’t tell how much is left. I can’t tell if I’m close to the end or still at the beginning.

I can’t tell anything in this dark world. 

The tape pulls free, and I can’t help the smile that touches my face. 

I’m free! 

For now. 

Instead of tossing the tape to the ground, I set it against my bleeding leg and begin to wrap it around the wound. I pull it tight and have to grit my teeth as I keep it pressed against the wound. I wind it again and again as heat begins to consume my body, telling me that I’m close to passing out. 

I can’t… not yet. 

I tuck the end of the tape in, praying it’ll stay. Slumping against the chair, I feel nauseous as sweat soaks my shirt. I have to waste a precious moment regaining my composure until I feel prepared to make my escape. If I make a single mistake, this will be over. I won’t get a second chance. 

It doesn’t matter how much pain I’m in, I know that if I don’t make it out of here now, I will die. 

Using my one good arm and the arm of the chair, I push myself to my feet, favoring my left leg. I know where the door is; it’s in front of me. But I can’t remember how far away. 

Four feet?

Six feet?

It feels like a mile as I take my first step. My weight comes down on my leg, and I nearly fall to the ground, but I manage to steady myself. When I hit the door, I am elated. I have made it this far. I can make it. I can do this. 

I set my hand against the cool metal door and slide it to the edge until I feel where the door meets the doorframe. Then I run my hand down until I hit the doorknob. Desperately, I grab onto it and pull. 

It gives easily in my hand, making me want to grin at their mistake, but I can’t get the grimace off my face. 

They’re not afraid of me escaping. 

How far can a blind man go?

I’ll show them how fucking far I can go. 

I step out into the hallway as I try to remember the path I was taken in through. Back when my world wasn’t consumed by darkness. 

There were stairs. I remember the stairs that I was dragged down; now I just have to find them. With my good hand against the wall, I begin to walk. Each step as painful as the last. It feels like the world is closing in on me as the darkness consumes me. 

There could be a man directly in front of me, and I would never see him until I am on him. They could be laughing at me as I drag my body through the hall, praying for stairs I am not sure I will ever find. 

My hand touches a door and I debate opening it, but even if there is a gun sitting right inside, I can’t do anything with it. I am useless now. 

No, I am not useless. I can get out of here. 

My hand slides forward, dropping as the wall falls away. I don’t realize how much weight I had been pressing against it until I am falling forward. Desperately, I reach out, hoping to catch myself, but the moment my right hand hits, my wrist gives, and I slam down onto the stairs. 

I dig the nails of my left hand into the step as I lie against them. 

Well… I found the stairs. 

I grab onto the next step and pull myself up, first placing one knee, and then the next as I crawl up them. I know I need to get to my feet, but I’m not sure I can. Carefully, I slide each hand forward, feeling my path as I edge up each step. 

When my hand doesn’t reach another step, I stretch it out, feeling the path before me until I hit a wall. I slide my hand along it until I find a doorknob and turn it. I pull the door toward me, but it won’t give, so I push it away. 

For all I know, I’m stepping right into the pit of vipers. I can’t check, I can just listen. As I step through the door, I feel the cool air on the left side of my face. Slowly I turn my head as if I could see something and move toward it. 

Could this be a door leading out? Could it be this simple? 

None of this has been simple so far. 

My hand hits a door, and suddenly I can feel the cool metal. I move my hand until I find another handle and pull it open. The smell of fresh rain fills my nose as I grasp onto the sound of birds in the distance. 

I have made it outside, but it doesn’t mean I’m free.

The wind blows, disrupting my hair and angering the wounds on my face. I want to lie down. Just rest for a moment, but I know that if I do, I won’t get back up, and I can’t give up. I’ve made it too far now, but doubt sets in regardless. I have no idea where I’m at; I can’t grab a car and drive away. I am lost in this world of darkness and can barely breathe. My chest feels like it’s compressing as I take my first step. I can hear gravel beneath my feet as I reach out, wishing to find a wall to support me. 

There’s nothing left, making me feel like every step I take could lead to my death. Like I would fall into a pit and drop straight to hell. 

Then I hear it. 

A dog barking. 

The sound is distant but steady. 

A rhythm, almost. 

Constant. 

It could be leading me to my death, but it could also be leading me to my freedom. 

So, I begin to walk. Slowly placing each foot in front of the other. It feels like a dream, almost like I am walking on nothing and everything. Carefully, I keep moving forward, forcing one step after the other. 

The barking grows louder. 

It feels like I’ve walked for hours.

Or days. 

Or a lifetime. 

I will reach that dog. I will reach it, and I pray that when I do, it will lead to my freedom from this hell.

Chapter One

Felix

I check my phone for the fourth time to make sure it’s the right address, as if I have forgotten how to read and might be at the wrong place. But I hate going to places I have never been to before, so I check it one more time, just in case. When I’m certain that I’m at the right location, I get out of my car and walk up the sidewalk, toward the gray, one-story house. It has a small porch with some weathered wicker chairs set out on it. I walk up the steps and across the porch to the dark blue door. I knock on it, before stepping back and waiting. It isn’t long before the door swings open, and a man in his forties looks out at me. 

He smiles at me as he swings the door open wider. “You must be Mr. Wake,” the man says as he holds his hand out. His brown hair is cut short and gray hair is starting to mix in. He has dark blue eyes that are hidden behind black-framed glasses. 

“Yes, I am,” I say as I take his hand and shake it. “Just call me Felix though.” 

“I’m James Dixon. I was the one that talked to you last night on the phone.” 

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say as I look up at him. Sadly, I seem to have to look up at half the population. Not half the adult population, but half the population as a whole. 

“Please, come in,” he says as he holds the door open for me. “I’m glad to finally meet with you in person. I’ve been very busy, so I was unable to do the interviews, but Dani thought you were the best choice, so here we are.” 

“Yes, thanks for giving me this opportunity,” I say with a smile. 

“Right this way,” he says. “You can meet Lane, and then I’ll show you around the house.”

“Okay,” I say, looking around curiously as he leads me through the kitchen and into the living room. The house is very nice but noticeably bare. It looks like someone had just moved in and had forgotten to decorate any of the rooms. There are no pictures on the walls or anything that looks personalized. Everything looks like it was bought from a home décor store and just stuck on the wall or on a shelf without any meaning to it. It reminds me more of a house ready for market than one actually being lived in. 

The television is on in the living room, and in the middle of the room is a man in a wheelchair. His back is facing us, but he turns his head a little in our direction, telling me he’s heard us. 

“This is Lane,” James says, and the man turns his head a bit more in our direction. 

“James, if that is someone to babysit me, I swear to God I’m going to be so pissed,” he growls. 

Clearly, I’ve made an excellent first impression, and I haven’t even opened my mouth yet. Generally, I get a few words out before people decide to hate me. 

“It’s not,” James says calmly. “Go ahead, introduce yourself.” 

I walk around to the front of the wheelchair the man is sitting in. His head turns as he tries to follow the sound of my footsteps with his ears. I can see a stretch of a healing red cut running along his left cheekbone, hidden slightly by the dark sunglasses he’s wearing. Even though he is in his own home, the fact that he is blind must bother him enough that he feels like he needs to hide it. He has a blanket lying over his lap, but I know from the interview that he had hurt his left leg. All this from a drunk driver hitting his car. He’ll be blind forever because of another man’s negligence. I guess I would be a bit of a grouch too if someone had ripped my vision away from me. 

“Hi, Mr. Price, my name is Felix Wake,” I say. 

“And, Mr. Wake, what are you doing in my home?” he asks as venom drips off his words. 

I look over at James and raise an eyebrow as I realize I’m not welcome. 

“Felix is going to be assisting you until you get better,” James says. 

“I don’t need help, because I am not helpless.” He’s scowling at us and I know that if I could see his eyes they’d be glaring at me. He looks to be in his mid or late thirties with rich brown hair that looks a bit unkempt. The right side is sticking straight up, and the left lies naturally. His facial hair looks scruffy, like it hasn’t been trimmed in a while. His cheeks look hollow like he is beyond exhaustion, but it is clear that this man used to be quite active by the way his T-shirt clings around his muscular arms and stomach. So honestly, it’s not my fault that I can’t help my straying eyes. 

“Felix will be staying in the guest bedroom and will take care of the cleaning, cooking, and care for you,” James explains, and I hope he hasn’t noticed my betraying eyes. 

Lane laughs, but it’s not a happy laugh. “It’s my house; I can decide what to do with it and how to take care of myself,” he says. It’s like every time he opens his mouth he looks just a bit uglier. Who am I kidding? The man is gorgeous. 

“Well, Lane, he’s moving in tomorrow,” James says. “So, you better get used to it.” 

Lane seems to decide that he’s done with the conversation and starts to ignore us. Instead, he aims all his concentration toward the TV, making James sigh. “Right this way, Felix.” 

I follow as he leads me over to the hallway. Even these walls are empty of pictures and color. Just white walls, white trim. It feels sterile, like a hospital or a school.

“First door on the left is the bathroom,” he says. I glance through the open doorway as he continues walking. “Next door is Lane’s room. Then yours is right here.” 

Lane’s bedroom door is closed, but James pushes open the door to the guest bedroom. I peek in, but from here all I can see is the full-sized bed. I run my hand through my ear-length, blond hair and pray that I had made the right decision coming here. I worry at a tip of my hair before dropping my hand down. 

I glance over at James, who is staring at his phone. “Is it alright with me being here?” I ask a bit skeptically. Clearly, the occupant of the house didn’t want me within ten miles of him, and we hadn’t even shared words yet beyond an introduction. 

“Of course. Don’t listen to Lane. I make the decisions, not him. He thinks he can do everything, but I don’t want him alone all day. He can be reckless at times, and I know if he’s alone he’ll end up doing something stupid and hurting himself. Really, he’s not a bad guy. He’s is just… not taking this well. He’s angry and upset, so he seems to be lashing out at anyone that looks his way. He is used to being independent and self-sufficient, not relying on others. You alright with this?”

“Yes, of course,” I say as I glance into my room. It looks as bare and lifeless as the rest of the house. 

“Here,” James says, pulling my attention back to him. I notice that he’s holding out a credit card, so I reach for it. “Buy groceries for Lane and yourself with this. It can also be used for whatever necessities are needed. Dani said she’d already gone over all the details with you. Are there any questions?” 

“Not that I’m aware of,” I say as I clutch the credit card in my hand, slightly unsure of what to do with it. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he says. He shakes my hand again, but for some reason, I feel like “if you decide to come back” had been hanging onto the end of his words. 

He turns around and continues back through the hallway, so I follow him into the living room. 

“He’s not gone yet?” Lane grumbles. 

“Not yet,” James says. 

“Did you tell him the last babysitter didn’t make it a day?” he asks like he’s proud of himself. I’m kind of proud of him because I can’t imagine that would be easy to do. 

“Nope, but now he’s well aware,” James says with a grimace. 

I can’t help but grin. To me, that sounds like a challenge, and one thing I do enjoy is a challenge. “I’ll be back tomorrow to start,” I say, trying to sound very happy about it. “Can’t wait to see you again, Lane!” 

“Don’t bother coming back,” he growls, and I almost laugh as I head out the door. 

*****

I knock on the door, but James must have seen me pull up because he pulls the door open before my hand even hits a second time. 

“Good to see you back,” he says eagerly. “Sorry to run, but I need to be home by six. You have any questions?”

The bag is weighing down my arm, and right now I just want to find a place to put it. “Not that I can think of,” I say. 

“Here’s my number. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call,” he says as he passes me a piece of paper with a list of contacts. His number is handwritten at the top, and I notice the rest of the numbers are for doctors. Not a single contact looks like a family member’s. 

“Thank you,” I say. 

He smiles and passes by me, leaving me in the house alone with the man who hates my guts. That’s alright, I’ve lived with people that hated me before. How could this one be any worse? I carry my suitcase down the hall, between the white, looming walls, and set it just inside my bedroom door. Then I walk into the living room where Lane is sitting before the TV that’s playing a movie. He doesn’t even look in my direction as I walk in, instead, he stays facing the TV with his blanket around his lap and sunglasses firmly in place. 

“Lane, it’s Felix,” I say. “How are you doing today?” 

He doesn’t move, just completely ignores me as he taps the edge of his wheelchair with his finger. 

“Do you need anything?” I ask.

Silence. The TV is playing The Hangover, which he doesn’t seem to be enjoying. It’s the part where the man jumps out of the trunk, but he’s acting like it’s a movie about the Holocaust. 

I walk over to him. “Is your water full?” I ask as I pick the bottle up. It’s full, but the water is warm. “I’ll get you something cold. Just water or something else?” 

“Maybe I want my water warm,” he says. 

I debate saying something, but I don’t. It probably wouldn’t look good to bad-mouth a blind man, so I put the lid back on and set it down. “Alright, one warm water coming right up,” I say. I pause, waiting to see if he’ll say anything, before sighing. “I’m going to go unpack. If you need something, don’t hesitate to ask.” 

I walk back to my bedroom where I toss my suitcase on my bed and open it. The room is bigger than the one I’d had at my last apartment, which really isn’t saying much. This one has a nice full-sized bed, which is an upgrade from the twin I had still been sleeping on at the age of twenty-five. There is a dresser in the corner and a desk, but the room is simple. When I pull the dresser drawers open, the smell of fresh wood touches my nose. I put my underwear and socks in the first drawer, shirts in the second, pants in the third, and sweatshirts in the last drawer. There isn’t much else in my suitcase. A few books, a few movies. Everything else I own is in my car since I had decided to completely move out of my apartment. I didn’t need it if I am living here, so what’s the use of paying rent on it? And it isn’t like I would have trouble finding another dumpy apartment if this didn’t work out. 

I walk back into the living room. “Do you need something?” 

“Please, just go away,” he says sharply. 

Alright. I walk into the kitchen and rummage through the cupboards, but there isn’t much. Thankfully, there is enough to get by until tomorrow because I really don’t feel like grocery shopping today. I’m sure I won’t feel like grocery shopping tomorrow either, but it has to be a little easier using someone else’s credit card. I walk back into the living room and sit down in a chair. There’s not much left of the movie, so I wait until it’s over. 

“I need to go grocery shopping tomorrow, so I’m wondering if you could tell me what types of food you like?” I ask as soon as the credits roll. 

He keeps his face forward, refusing to even turn his head a fraction in my direction. “How about meats? You like chicken?” I ask. 

He ignores me, so I just lean back and watch the TV. 

“You want to sit in a chair? That wheelchair can’t be comfortable.”

Ha, like I would actually get an answer! 

When supper time comes around, I cook rice and chicken since that is basically all that I can find in the house. I dish it up into a bowl, grab a fork, and carry it into the living room. After setting his tray up in front of him, I place the bowl on it. 

“I made rice and chicken. There wasn’t much else in the house, so this is what we’ll have to make do with. I put your fork on the right,” I say. 

He doesn’t even turn his head toward the food. 

“I’ll be back,” I say before getting up and walking into the kitchen. I watch from the doorway as he slowly reaches for his fork. He has a brace on his right hand, but he tries to set it against the bowl, so he can feel it. I know that his hand isn’t broken, but he seems to be having trouble using it. I know he doesn’t want me to watch him fumble, which is why he refused to eat in front of me. I sigh and eat my food from the doorway of the kitchen, so I can watch in case he needs something. 

When he’s done I walk back in. 

“Was it okay?” 

“No,” he says. 

Of course not. 

“What would you have liked different?” 

“All of it.” 

Of course. 

“Well, I’m sorry, but that’s how I cook. If you’d like something specific, I’ll make it for dinner tomorrow.” 

I don’t even expect an answer, so I pick up the bowls and wash them in the sink before drying them. After a few hours of TV, I get no response when I ask if he wants a snack or if he wants to take a shower. 

“Alright, bedtime,” I say. 

“I’m not a child.” 

“Never said you were,” I say. But since he can’t do anything about it, I grab the back of his wheelchair and wheel him down the hallway and into the bathroom. “Toothbrush… where’s your toothbrush?” 

“Up your ass,” he says. 

“Nope, I think I would have noticed it there,” I say. 

I open the cupboards and finally find it in the end drawer. I put toothpaste on it and wet it. “Here you go,” I say as I place it in his hand. He instinctively grabs it, and I’m thrilled when he finally brushes his teeth. When he’s done, I put the toothbrush back where I found it. 

“I need to pee, so leave,” he says as he tries to show me out with a wave of his hand. 

“You expect me to leave while you try to pee alone?” 

“Yes.” 

“No.” 

“What, you want to fondle my dick or something?” 

Maybe. 

“Your leg is hurt, and your hand is hurt, so I think I’ll help you onto the toilet. I can leave then if you insist, I just don’t want you to fall,” I say as I wheel him over to the toilet. 

He’s bigger than me, so I put the lock on the wheelchair and wrap an arm behind his back. With his help, I manage to get him up. He slides his pants down, so I guide him onto the toilet. 

“Alright, I’m leaving but only if you promise to tell me when you’re done. Don’t do something stupid on your own.” 

He ignores me as I walk out and shut the door. It isn’t long before I hear a loud crash, so I yank the door open to find Lane half on the ground with everything knocked off the countertop. Quickly, I rush over and grab him, so I can help pull him into the chair. 

As I help him, I don’t even bother saying anything because I can tell he’s mad at himself and would probably snap at me if I did. Instead, I kick the stuff on the floor out of the way and wheel him through the doorway and into his bedroom. “I want to check your wounds and then you can go to bed.” 

I ruffle through the mess that James had left for me, but I get the gist of what’s there. “I have to pull your sweatpants down, alright?” I say as I do just that, so I can get to his thigh. I look at the staples, which seem to be healing well. It won’t be long before he’ll be able to get them out and get out of the wheelchair. I clean the area and help him back into his sweats. He also has a cut on his arm and a small one on his other leg that I check. “There. Everything feels alright?” 

He ignores me, so I help him up into his bed and pull the sheets over him. 

“Can I check your eyes?” I ask since I haven’t seen him with the sunglasses off yet. 

“No, I’ve already taken care of them.” 

“Are you sure?” I ask. 

“They’re fine.” 

“Goodnight. If you need anything, wake me up. What time do you usually get up in the morning?” 

Silence. “Yeah, me too,” I say before walking out of the room. 

*****

I wake at eight and help Lane into the living room without much incident and without any kind words from him. 

“Do you want to sit in a chair or lay down?” 

Silence. 

Oh, I can only be nice for so long. “Lane, I am speaking to you,” I say. “You’re not deaf. Answer me.” 

“Just leave me alone. I want to be alone!” he says as he slams his hand down on the arm of the chair. 

I honestly think he just wants to rot in that chair and let depression consume him. “Well, sorry, but your pity party of one just gained a new member,” I say. “And guess what? I’m not leaving. I’m going to help you whether you like it or not because I get paid, which I like.” 

He turns his head toward me. “Did you seriously just say that?” 

“I did, and in retrospect, it might have been a bit mean. But I feel like you also thought it was slightly funny,” I say. 

“So, you’re a comedian now?” 

“Oh no. I just say stuff that gets me in trouble, but no one’s here to yell at me. If I keep getting paid I’m staying. It’s your choice whether you want it to be a fun and pleasant experience or hell.” 

“My life is already hell.” 

I snort. “Trust me, buddy, I can make it worse. I could… put you in the corner… take away your blanket… feed you dog food,” I say as I try not to laugh. 

“Can’t be any worse than what you fed me last night,” he says, and I feel like I can see a slight upturn of his lips. Maybe he isn’t all bad. 

I laugh in surprise. “You are pure evil.” 

“Then maybe you should leave now.” 

“No, I’m not going to.” I grab his water bottle and go into the kitchen where I run the water until it is almost hot. I fill up his cup and carry it into the living room where I hand it to him. “Here’s your water.” 

He takes it from me and I watch with a grin as he takes a sip of it and spits it out. “What is this?” He shakes the cup and water sloshes out. 

“Yesterday you said you liked your water warm.”

“Oh, really funny,” he says, but his words don’t have the venom they held earlier. He throws it at me, and let me say, for a blind guy, he has a really good aim. It hits me square in the forehead and I stumble back as water showers me. 

“Ow!” I snap as I grab my head. It feels like I should have a welt the size of an egg on my head. 

“Did that hit you?” he asks as he tries to hide a grin. 

“I’m going to have a brain tumor now.” 

“I don’t see anything,” he says as he looks quite content with himself. “Not even a red spot.”

“Hmm. I’m going to buy you cat food for lunch,” I say. 

“From the limited amount of time I have spent with you I have decided that you’re actually quite mean. I guess you’re really not the little happy boy you were pretending to be yesterday,” he says. 

“Being around you for any amount of time can turn a saint into a sinner,” I say. 

“If you’re insistent on joining this ‘pity party,’ go make me some oatmeal.” 

“I thought you didn’t like my food,” I say. 

“Hopefully even you can’t ruin oatmeal,” he says. 

“One could hope,” I say as I turn from him and walk into the kitchen. I pour the little packet of oatmeal into a bowl as well as some milk and slip it into the microwave. Then I pull open all the wrong drawers before finding the spoons. Once the oatmeal is cooked, I carry it into the living room and set it down in front of Lane. “Spoon on the right.” 

He reaches for it and touches it gingerly. I think he is waiting for me to leave, but I don’t. I honestly can’t. I also can’t wipe the grin off my face. He sticks his spoon into the oatmeal, grabbing a spoonful before raising it to his mouth. 

“What is this? Soup?” he asks as he tips the spoon and everything runs off. 

“I may have added a bit too much milk,” I admit. I hadn’t done it on purpose, but instead of trying to drain any of the milk, I had decided he could drink it with a straw if he is going to be mean.

“How did you get hired?” he asks in shock. 

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” I say. “I guess I’m good at talking women into things. Alright, I’m going shopping. You going to tell me what you want?” 

“I want you to leave. I mean, if I have to suffer and be taken care of like I’m an invalid, I would at least like someone that cooks.” 

“Yeah, I don’t think I can buy cooking skills at the store. So, think of something edible. How about meats. Are you picky?” 

He tries to eat the oatmeal, but every spoonful is just milk. “Is there actually any oatmeal in here?” he asks.

“Just drink it,” I suggest. “So, I’m just going to go buy you things and hope you’re not allergic to any of it. You want to go with me?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Okay. What would you like to do while I’m gone?” 

He gets a look on his face like he has a bright idea. “Why don’t you go get me a book? Oh, and set up a puzzle for me, too,” he suggests. 

“Alright,” I say. I walk into the hallway and turn left into his bedroom. There’s a bookshelf shoved against the wall filled with books. The man must have loved to read because it’s overflowing out onto the floor. I pick the first book off the top of the pile, walk back into the living room, and set the book on his lap. “Here you are. I couldn’t find a puzzle though, but I can pick you up one at the store. A thousand pieces wouldn’t be too hard for you, would it?” 

The expression on his face shows me his shock. “Oh ho… that’s mean,” he says, unable to hide his grin. He grabs the book and chucks it at me. Thankfully, this time he misses and the book skids across the floor. 

“You asked for it!” I say as I pick the book up off the ground and set it on the coffee table. “Want the TV on?” I ask as I pick up the remote.

“As long as you don’t do it,” he says. I turn it on anyway and flip through it until I find the Spanish movie channel, really hoping he doesn’t know Spanish. 

“How’d you know that this is my favorite channel?” he jokes. 

“I’m good like that. I’ll be back in an hour or so. I have my cell, so if you need anything I have my number dialed in it. All you have to do is ask Siri. You do remember my name, right?” 

He picks up his phone, holds the button and lifts it toward his face. “Siri, call shit for brains.” 

“I don’t see Shit in your contacts. Should I look for locations by that name?” Siri asks. 

Nice. 

I grab my car keys and walk out the door.

Saturday Series Spotlight

Part 1

Sunday Short Stack

Dancing in Darkness

Alice Winters
Alice Winters started writing stories as soon as she was old enough to turn her ideas into written words. She loves writing a variety of things from romance and comedy to action. She also enjoys reading, horseback riding, and spending time with her pets.

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Hidden in Darkness #1

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