Page 36 of Black Roses

He was going to ask me out again at brunch yesterday. I know it. I could sense it; feel it in his touch. Lying here in bed, I can still feel his fingers on my arm. First, holding me up so I didn’t fall when we collided, then brushing lightly against my skin as we spoke. It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying when all my focus was on those inches of my flesh that were touching his.

However, I’m glad he didn’t ask. I would have said no. I’m only here for a few more weeks. And once I leave I’m not coming back. What would be the point in going out with him again?

I had another dream about him last night. I find it strange that ever since I saw the face in the crowd, the face that should have me fighting demons every night in my sleep, I’ve had more good nights than bad. More dreams than nightmares. More hope than despair. But I know my dreams are just that—dreams of what could never happen. I could never have a real relationship with a man. I could never be with someone without the ugliness of my past destroying any shred of a bright future. My fate has been sealed. My destiny shrouded in a darkness I can never overcome.

I reach my hand out and place it on the vacant pillow next to me, for the first time in my life, mourning every what-if and could-have-been. I reach down into the very depths of my soul, looking inwardly around every nook and cranny to see if there is any small part of me—just one little piece I think I can give to him.

I touch my lips. I remember the fire he set in my body and the shivers he sent down my spine when he touched them the other night. The memory of it has my fingers wandering into my panties, something I’ve done sparingly over the years and only to release tension. Never before have I touched myself while thinking of a man. Never have I let my fingers circle my clit while envisioning another person. Never have my fantasies gone so wild that I find myself moaning at the very thought of him.

My hips begin to move involuntarily as I spread the wetness around, making my fingers glide soft and easy over my hard nub. My mind goes back to the night he protected me; spooned me until I fell asleep. I imagine him brushing my hair aside and tracing my tattoo before placing his lips on it. I imagine his lips and hands traveling down my body, softly, slowly and gently like no others have ever done. I slip a finger inside of me, pretending it’s his. I think his name might even escape my mouth in a breathy moan when my thighs tighten, my belly clenches and I spiral down into a shuttering orgasm unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

Then without thinking too much about it, I pick up my phone.

Me: Was there something you wanted to ask me yesterday?

He texts me back immediately and I break into an enormous smile, so sudden and unexpected it hurts my face.

Mason: Yes. I just wasn’t sure you were ready to be asked.

Me: Today is a new day.

Mason: Okay, then. Will you go out with me on Saturday?

Me: Yes.

I throw my phone down and head into the bathroom.

When I emerge from my shower, I hear commotion downstairs. I throw on a t-shirt and yoga pants and head down to see what’s up. I’m just off the bottom step when squeals of laughter fill the air. I look over to see Griffin giving Hailey a piggy-back ride around the living room.

My heart thunders. Where there’s Hailey, there’s Mason.

In two seconds flat, I take inventory of my appearance. Hair—wet. Clothes—frumpy. Makeup—none. I spin on my bare feet and attempt to make a mad dash upstairs before I even have a chance to think about the fact that he’s seen me at my worst before. He’s seen me at the gym. He’s watched me shatter in front of thousands of people, sweaty and broken. He’s witnessed me drunk and disheveled. So why, in this moment do I care if he sees me like this?

“Hey, Princess.”

I hate that name. I want to walk over to him and shove it right back down his throat. But somehow, he’s made it seem more of an endearment than a putdown. The way he says it, I realize it’s the same tone he uses when addressing his daughter.

I protest anyway, on principle. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to call me that anymore.”

“Okay, then. Hey, sweetheart.” He winks at me.

I roll my eyes. I roll them despite the fact I love the way the word rolls off his tongue. My mind flashes back to the first time he used it. When I was drunk and having a nightmare in his arms. Then again at the hotel when he was comforting me. I can remember every single time with indisputable clarity. When he says it, it’s not condescending like the way some men, and a few women, say it. He’s sincere. Assured. Confident.

I feel the heatwave across my face and chest as I recall the fantasy I had just a short time ago. Oh, my God. Was he here? Was he in the same house, just down the stairs even, when I was coming to the thought of him?

Skylar appears from the kitchen, carrying a happy Aaron in her arms. I look at her with him. I look hard, as if seeing them together for the first time. I realize I’ve pretty much ignored the baby while I’ve been here. I’ve made excuse after excuse not to be around him. Skylar has stopped asking if I want to hold him. I stare at her with him, watching as Griffin swoops in to kiss her cheek on his way by, swinging Hailey as she makes excited noises. It’s a freaking Norman Rockwell painting. I want this. I want this so much my heart hurts.

But deep down, I know I can never have those things. The happiness. The sense of well-being. The joy.

They all died with my spirit five years ago. I can’t get them back. Charlie can’t get them back—Lord knows she’s tried. What makes me think Mason can help me feel them again? In only two short weeks, no less. I re-think my text earlier. I shouldn’t have sent it. I was in some weird state. Some alternate post-orgasmic reality where I thought I could be normal.

“Good,” Skylar says, placing Aaron in his bassinet, turning on the mobile of dancing bears hanging over his head. “You’re both here.” She goes to stand by Griffin’s side. “We need to talk to you.”

Oh, hell. She’s going to try and set us up. My eyes glance at Mason, who, by the look on his face, has no idea why he’s here. Skylar’s never been one to interfere. Baylor—she’s the meddler. She wants everyone’s lives to play out like one of her sappy romance novels. But Skylar, she’s always pretty much left me alone. I can feel it coming, though, percolating up out of her as if it’s been festering inside her and must come bursting out.

I sigh and wait for my sister to embarrass me.

What comes out of her mouth, however, doesn’t make me blush after all.

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