GRACE
For most of our journey back to his apartment, James stares out of the window, his expression contemplative. It must be strange, heading back to normality after being held hostage, in a sense, for just over a month. I can’t pretend to understand so I stay quiet, letting James lead the conversation when, and if, he wants to.
He’s with me. That’s all that matters.
When we reach his front door I pause, twisting the key in the lock. “Don’t freak out. I’ll have it tidied in no time.”
James raises an eyebrow, oblivious to the scene he’s about to walk into. He keeps his homes pristine and orderly, like show-houses, and so when he walks inside and his eyes meet clothes on the floor, dirty dishes piled high in the sink, and crumbs scattered all over his centrepiece rug, his mouth falls op
