Page 123 of Make Me Dream of You

“I’m not doing it because you want me to. I want to.”

Turning quickly, she goes to the bedroom. She’s trying to get away from me. She doesn’t want to talk to me, and I can’t get my bearings on the situation.

I know I fucked up, but I didn’t think it was this bad.

Her duffle bag is already laid out on the bed and she’s throwing clothes in haphazardly. She wipes her face forcefully with her palm and stuffs a pair of shoes down the side.

My heart’s racing. Sinking. I don’t know what to say or do.

“I didn’t mean what I said to Wood. I was making us a nice dinner so we could sit and talk, and I was going to ask you to stay. For good?—”

She whips her head up to glare at me, though her downturned bottom lip is starting to quiver. “I’m leaving. We’re over. I don’t want to talk about it. Nothing you can say will change my mind.”

With a grunt, she pushes the overflowing contents into the bag and zips it up, the piercing sound of metal on metal.

“Wait—we’re over?”

She brushes past me with her bag thrown over her shoulder. Eyes forward.

I follow her out to the living room, determined to not let her out that door without talking to me.

“You have every right to be mad, to be hurt, but you have to hear me out. I don’t want to take a step back. Fuck. I want to step forward. With you.”

She turns on me, her expression full of fury. “I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.” Her nostrils flare at the same time a tear falls to her cheek. “I can’t be here. I’m not strong enough for this.”

I’m about to drop to my knees for this girl. Beg if I need to. I’ve never felt this desperate. “I’m not lying. What I said this morning?—”

“You all but admitted it this morning!”

What the fuck does that mean?

I’m too distracted, her words confusing me, that I don’t realize her hand is on the door until she opens it.

I rush over, grabbing her wrist. My hand slides down, grasping for hers, needing to feel her fingers intertwining with mine, needing to give me a reassuring squeeze so I know she’s with me. Her and me.

She looks down to our hands together and for a second, I think she’s going to. She’ll hold it back and wrap her arms around me and I’ll make sure we’re okay.

Silently, her beautiful big green eyes watery and red-rimmed, she looks up and me and slips her hand out of mine.

Blood is pumping so loud in my ears I can’t hear. Can’t think. Adrenaline is making me shake. But I try to breathe. I lower my head to hers and say in as steady and soft a tone as I can, “Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just please don’t go. Don’t do this.”

But I already know. The despair in her eyes conveys everything, echoing the twisting wrenching of my insides.

Without saying anything else, she leaves.

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, staring at the closed door as the shadows from the window grids cross the floor and the room grows dark. My legs ache when I finally move.

I throw the sauteed mushrooms and half-dredged chicken in the trash.

The nights are the worst.

During the day I can shut everything off. Focus on work. My bookkeeping has never been so up to date, my desk never so clean. That happens when I spend more time in my office than out in the shop tattooing. I can’t stand the way my chest aches when I look at her demon and angel drawing near my station. Can’t bring myself to take it down, either.

But I can’t lock myself away from things that remind me of her at night.

My sheets still smell like her.

Lying in bed, surrounded by her, minutes turn to hours with painful consistency, a countdown reminding me with every turn of the clock that I am not asleep.

---