Page 32 of Lose You to Find Me

I gave advice to anybody who asked for it that I’d like to think was reasonable, not solely based on sex. Ironically, now that I’ve moved out and live on my own without anybody pestering me with sage wisdom, I find myself using the physical stuff to get through all the other tangled bullshit inside my head.

Slowly peeling the comforter off my body, I creep out of bed and glance over my shoulder at the raven-haired beauty sleeping soundly on her stomach. The comforter has fallen halfway off her naked body, showing off the small tattoo of an open birdcage on her shoulder and the script running down the length of her spine that’s from her favorite Edgar Allan Poe poem.

The first time we slept together, we lay in bed while I grazed my fingertips along the letters and listened to her tell me about the other tattoos she wants to get. She loves literature, flowers, and music, so she wants all her favorite things represented. When she asked if I ever wanted any, I told her I couldn’t think of anything permanent that I’d want immortalized on my skin.

It’s not entirely the truth.

A long time ago, I thought about going with Aiden Griffith to get some work done when he was getting his Captain America shield filled in by a popular artist in the next town over. I had every intention of getting Raine’s name until the guy who owned the parlor talked me out of it. “You never know what the future will bring, my man. I’ve seen a lot of people come to regret ever getting names tatted on them.”

I wanted to get it ten times more just to prove I wouldn’t be one of those people. The only reason I didn’t go through with it is because it was a cash-only studio and I had none on me at the time. When he asked if I wanted to make an appointment to come back, I told him I’d call.

Guess that was fate’s way of stepping in.

Gathering my things, I start dressing on the other side of the room and peeking at the girl hugging a pillow on the bed. I never stay the night. It’s why I never invite her to my place. I know I’d feel bad kicking her out when all was said and done. The thought of sharing my space with someone new sends me in a panic spiral, especially because Emma and I aren’t exclusive. And as much as I have a feeling she wants to be, the only thing I can promise her is taking it a date at a time.

I’m slipping on my boots by the door when Emma comes to, groggily asking, “Are you leaving already?”

Glancing at the time on her microwave, I wince at how late it is. “You’ve been asleep for a while. It’s almost two. I’ve got a test in the morning, so…”

She never says if she wants me to stay and never bothers asking. Maybe she knows she’d be setting herself up for disappointment.

Walking over, I bend down and press a quick kiss to her head. “Go back to sleep. I know you’re off tomorrow. You could use all the rest you can get.”

Emma watches me for a second before sitting up, lifting the comforter to cover her bare chest. She looks like she’s about to say something else but settles with “Good luck on your test.”

I smile, pecking her lips before grabbing my keys from my sweatshirt pocket. “Thanks. I’ll let you know when I get home.”

All she does is nod, and I feel those eyes follow me as I make my escape out the front door of her apartment.

Do I feel bad for ditching her every time we hook up? Yes. She’s the only person I’ve slept with besides Raine. And despite the breakup, it still feels like I’m cheating on Raine by sleeping next to somebody else. The ridiculous thought digs its claws in as I drive home, walk into my apartment, and listen to the silence I’m surrounded by.

One of these days, I’ll sleep over at Emma’s. If she’ll let me. But maybe by then she’ll be sick of my back-and-forth, and I wouldn’t blame her.

I’m sick of it too.

And while I don’t want things with us to end, I wouldn’t hold it against her if she told me she was done.

This time, I’d let her walk away.

*

The storm echoesthroughout the valley, causing me to shift for the tenth time in bed, praying for sleep to come. I’ve been lying here for a couple of hours, and just when I’m about to drift off, a new boom of thunder rattles the windows and startles me back to consciousness.

I used to stay up just so I could watch the storms from the enclosed porch on my parents’ house. Dad would always be outside on the swing he loved rocking with Mom in, and we’d sit there in silence as we witnessed Mother Nature’s wrath. It was somehow peaceful to see how the lightning could brighten the otherwise pitch-black sky and how the air had a certain welcoming scent to it as the rain trickled down onto the tin roof.

Dad even talked Raine into sitting out there with us whenever she was over for dinner or to have family game nights with us. He’d always make a joke about how the sky was calling for her whenever it would open up. “The sky is trying to get your attention, Raine,” he’d always say, nudging her playfully. “Are you going to answer?”

Once, he convinced us to go out and dance in the rain. Raine was laughing at my horrible dance moves, telling me I should leave all the sideline entertainment to DJ, since he tended to show off his moves during halftime. I remember the day it was pouring down and Raine got my dad to not only go out with her but dance with her too.

It made me think of what our wedding would be like. She’d dance with her father, I’d dance with my mother, and maybe Dad would ask her for a chance to dance with him before I stole her away for the night.

We’d never have that now.

The nostalgic feeling of those late nights on the porch is long gone, replaced by dread over how different everything is now. It weighs down my stomach until I’m giving up on sleep, tossing the thin blanket off me and walking over to my small apartment window to see what mayhem is ensuing outside. The front lawn has a huge puddle in the middle of it, and one of my trash cans is tipped over from the howling wind.

It’s late in the year for storms like this, but it’s better than the snow we got in October a few years ago. People were trick-or-treating with winter coats on over their costumes, collecting candy in between snow squalls.

When I walk into the tiny kitchen, I hear thedrip, drip, dripthat’s definitely not coming from the sink faucet. Flicking on the light, I do a quick examination of my surroundings before turning toward the open living room. The space is crowded by the big couch that was given to me by a friend of the family and a cheap TV stand I bought online with an eight-year-old television on it.

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