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I’m giving her exactly what she wants, just to keep her.
I’m an asshole for doing it, knowing I can never be what she really needs and wants.
Her eyes light up and that soft smile reappears on her face. She brightens with hope and my shy girl comes back to me. “Are you sure?” she says, still panting, barely recovered from what I’ve already done to her. “You aren’t going to break my heart?”
She has no idea that she should be running from me. I’m well aware that I should turn her away regardless. Instead I smile down at her and kiss the tip of her nose. “I’m sure,” I tell her and hate myself that much more.
JULIA
There’s no rhyme or reason for when the memories come back. There’s nothing I can pinpoint that triggers it. Nothing that I can blame.
Lying in Mason’s arms, naked and warm, the two of us each working on our laptops in comfortable silence, there’s not a damn reason that I should be thinking of Jace, but I am.
I don’t want to. Even as I scoot my back close to the sofa, I try to rid myself of the images of him smiling at me. When I’d wake up in the morning, Jace would push the hair from my face and give me a quick kiss. Always on the lips, no matter how much I tried to dodge them. He thought it was cute how I didn’t want him to smell my morning breath.
Moments like that, moments we shared together that were easy and fun, where we fit beautifully together, those hurt the most when I remember. I let out an uneasy sigh and try to relax, ignoring Mason’s eyes on me.
You’d think I’d be happy that I had that at one point in time. That I had a man who loved me and whom I loved too. It’s easy to say:I’ll be glad because it happened and not sad because it’s over.But the truth is I can’t say that, because I don’t mean it.
“What’s wrong?” Mason’s deep voice cutting through the silent evening makes me feel even worse. I’m trying to move on, but it’s not that easy.
I swallow the lump in my throat and pull the dark gray throw over my legs and up to my shoulders. “Just having a moment,” I answer honestly, although I can’t look him in the eye. I hope he’ll just let it go.
His warm breath surrounds me as he pulls me closer to him and kisses my hair. I don’t expect the gentle touch from him. He whispers, “I get it.”
He splays his hand on my hip and runs his thumb back and forth over my bare skin. I wait for more, but he doesn’t say anything else. Only that he gets it and my treacherous heart thumps in recognition.
My laptop jostles across my legs as I try to get closer to him, loving the warmth, needing more of it. I wonder if it’s wrong to be upset over the passing of your husband while in the arms of your lover.
“Sometimes—” Mason starts to speak just as my eyes glaze over and the words on the screen start to blur. I take in a steadying breath and stop that shit. Crying never helped me. It doesn’t do any good at all.
Mason clears his throat while I wipe under my eyes.
“When my mom died, sometimes it was the oddest things that set me off.” I’m surprised by Mason’s confession and grateful to be talking about him and not me.
“I’m sorry about your mom.” My condolence is softly spoken; my voice a bit scratchier than I’d like. I stare up into his eyes which appear so much lighter than usual, maybe because it’s dark all around us. Only the glow of our laptops and the city lights beyond the large living room window to paint the room in a soft glow.
He tilts his head to the side, tucking my hair behind my ear and I push my cheek into his palm. He has such large hands, rough but warm. They’re the perfect size for this.
A coarse hum comes from deep in his chest. It’s short, but a sound of approval.
“It’s okay to hurt still.” His words are comforting. “It’s okay to cry and let it out, even if you’re already spent.”
My heart beats harder and my breathing becomes more difficult with every passing second that I absorb his statement. I search his eyes for something and he must see the panic in mine.
“Or we can do something else?” he says.
“Like what?” I ask him.
He clicks his tongue, his gaze on my face, but not my eyes. Finally, he takes his hand away and types something into the search bar on his computer.
He pulls up a book of poetry. Robert Frost.
I eye him curiously and he pets my hair before pulling my head closer to rest on his shoulder. I get comfortable as he says, “I can read to you?”
My heart hurts so much in this moment. Not the pain of what I’ve lost, but the pain that I have something so beautiful and something I’m so grateful for, and yet I still have these moments.
I nod against his shoulder and say, “Please.”