Page 32 of The Finish Line

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Sitting in the high back chair in front of a roaring fire, fingers hovering above the keyboard of my laptop, I get lost in the memory of that night around the campfire, the night I unearthed my plans. Less than a week later, I was hugging my baby brother tightly to me, fighting tears as he struggled to free himself from my grip. I’d embarrassed him publicly with my emotions. The memory of that has me tightening my grip on the velvet arms of the chair. I come to when Beau pops to life at my feet, ears perking before he lays his jaw back to rest on his paws. It’s when he lifts again that I hear a faint, pained mewl coming from the bedroom. Chest lurching, I close my eyes and curse, her agonized whimper growing louder as I close my laptop and jump to my feet. Beau stalks next to me as we rush toward the bedroom. Once inside, I click on her lamp and gaze down to see her face twisted, forehead covered in sweat, and her arm jerking at her side. A dream or a nightmare? Either way, I can’t stand the state she’s in. When we were together before, she would wake me with her subtle movements or light laughter, and I would watch her, curious as to what she was dreaming about and anticipate hearing about it in the morning. It was a much different situation than now, and these dreams are far different as well.

It’s when a sob bursts from her that I clench my fists, determined to take the burden away.

I did this. I will undo this.

Sidling up on the edge of the bed, I lean over and kiss her temple, and she barely rouses before sinking back into her dream state.

“Dis-moi contre qui me battre, et je me battrai jusqu’à ce qu’ils disparaissent.” Tell me who to fight. I will fight until they all go away. It’s when tears start to coat her cheeks that I gently lift her to my chest, her arms limp at her sides.

“Dis-moi comment réparer cela. Dis-moi, mon amour. Je ferai n’importe quoi.” Tell me how to fix this. Tell me, my love. I’ll do anything. Another sob escapes her as she comes to, and I hold her tightly to me to try and keep her grounded.

“Ce n’est qu’un rêve, Trésor. Je suis là. Je suis là.” Just a dream, treasure. I’m here. I’m here.

My name spills in a guttural cry from her lips as my chest caves in, and sobs begin to pour out of her, her body shaking as tears glide down her cheeks. I kiss them away one by one as she tries to speak but cries instead, clinging to me.

“It’s okay, Cecelia. It’s okay.” Silent cries wrack her body as she claws my back, and I kiss her face, her lips, her nose, her temple before lowering my mouth to her ear.

“I’m here.” I can’t promise her nothing bad will happen or that no monsters are lurking in the shadows, because there are. I can only try to protect her from them and from the damage the dormant monster inside of me can cause her. Finally coming to, she tenses and sniffles, gathering herself, and I release her, her swollen eyes lifting to mine.

“Tell me.”

“Not now,” she rasps out, gaze dropping. “I guess I woke you?”

“No, I was in the living room, on my laptop.”

“You can’t sleep?”

“I’m still a little jet-lagged. You sure you don’t want to tell me?”

“It was just a dream.” That statement and her posture strips all the intimacy out of the moment. Her guard is back up and firmly in place. I try to crowd her a little to keep her close to me, in hopes of a confession, but release her when she pulls away, shifts around me, and stands. “I’m fine.”

I grab her hand before she can fully retreat. “Don’t lie to me.”

She tenses before glancing over her shoulder down to where I sit on the edge of the bed. Resentment. It’s so clear, her voice frigid when she speaks. “That’s a bold request.”

“I’m aware.”

“You want honesty?” She pulls her hand away. “I’ve been through years of these dreams without you.”

That statement, along with the firm echo of the bathroom door shutting behind her, lets me know exactly where I stand.

She doesn’t need me, but that much I knew. She’s become her own woman, independent, fiercely so, and so much fucking stronger. She doesn’t need me, and that’s a fact I’ll have to live with and respect her for.

I just need to make her want me again.

Her face is clear when she emerges minutes later, posture stoic when her eyes lift to mine.

Challenge.

My fighter.

She’s daring me to press her, but tonight I won’t. Fisting my T-shirt, I pull it over my head and toss it to the floor. Her gaze drops when I push off my sweatpants and step out of them. We haven’t been intimate in months, in truth, years, because of the way I took her the last time in my gin-infused rage, something I’ll never forgive myself for. There’s nothing I want more than to erase that as the last time I had her, replace that memory, replace the lingering sound of her anguished cries with moans of pleasure. But even if she were free of those head-to-foot fucking flannel pajamas, I wouldn’t take her. Not with the cautious hesitation in her eyes, the fear. It doesn’t stop me from needing her or growing hard at the sight of the beautifully structured equal she’s grown into. She bristles when I walk over to where she stands, angry, emotionally confused, tormented by a past I can’t change and mistakes I can’t erase.

“I don’t know how this goes either,” I breathe. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take, or what words to say, or what moves to make. I have no plans, Cecelia, none.” I grip her hand and lead her back to bed. She lays with her back to me, wordless, and I pull her into my chest, my arms wrapped around her.

Her scent, the comfort of knowing she’s safe, eases some of the blow of her cries. I wait, hope for her explanation, hope that I wasn’t the cause of her tears, but nothing comes.

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