Page 9 of Born in the Spring

I’m left feeling…stale, for lack of a better word, with each touch and each kiss. I could’ve chosen worse, but he’s not my home. And he’s not Shyla Mountain.

We fell into this quickly. Too quickly. We were both needy in ways we’d never been before, both trudging through our own tragedies.

He shuffles over to the seat next to me and drops down, glancing at the wine glass and then my phone. “Talking withyour doctor again? How’d it go?” He asks like I’ve just come back from a day on the slopes and he hopes I had a good run. He’s never skied or snowboarded or stepped foot on any mountain.

The observation tugs my lips, brushing away him calling Helenadoctoras I let it go. “Good,” I say, the response I give him every time he asks.

“Good,” he says back, reaching up to rub my shoulder, and I feel the distance in his fingers even as he’s touching me. “Are you tired?”

“Enough,” I answer with a nod, pushing off the couch and out from his massage before he can feel the discomfort he’s working through me.

“What time is it?” he asks through another yawn as I start toward the bedroom. I slow my steps and turn back around to watch him crane his neck toward the clock on the microwave instead of just standing to see the time.

Since I’ve made the firm choice to go back, my head is nitpicking at every little thing, with him and with this place.

He stands now and walks toward me, while not looking toward the clock where he can now see the time. “I might just stay up.” He passes me, shuffling to the kitchen. “Is the smell of coffee gonna bother you?” he asks at the back counter, wanting to make his morning cup, but checking out of courtesy.

I’m sensitive to food-and-drink-related scents while I’m sleeping. But I’m only hoping for a couple hours—that’s all I’ll need to face this day once it officially begins.

“No, go ahead,” I tell him, not arguing what he wants, because we might be doing plenty of that later.

After I’ve packed my things and told him I’m leaving.

Four

Elara

It’s not an actual argument we’re having, but more of a…reluctancy to accept what he walked in on.

I got my couple hours, and after a hot shower, I made some calls, then packed my suitcase. I took a quick picture of it to announce I’m coming home. Made it feel more official. And the sort of advance notice to certain people in Casualty, and on the mountain, will allow me to ease into going back, and make my arrival not so sudden.

I was standing over my things when Davisreturned to the apartment, my hands in the pockets of my jacket—the same one I wore that day. It was my regular jacket, and I’ve missed the soft hug it gives me. This jacket is probably the softest piece of clothing I’ve owned. I still need its comfort in my moments of discomfort. And with it on, I feel like I never left where it came from, which helps me to leave where I am now.

Especially with Davis already making my departure more difficult.

We’ve leaned on each other, so I can understand his hesitance in ending this. But I’ve leaned too far from where I need to be and who I was.

Glass tinks against glass from the kitchen, where he stalked off after taking one look at my suitcase and asked if I was hungry. He didn’t wait for my answer, and I’ve been waiting for him to come back so we can talk before I leave, but he can be more stubborn than I can.

With a sigh, I meet him halfway, stopping just in the bedroom door and leaning against the jamb as I watch him wash the leftover dishes from this morning. His movements are slow, his shoulders rigid, a recognizable sight from six months ago, on a very different man and under very different circumstances, that almost makes me not even want to bother, but I have to get through to this one.

“This isn’t a good life for us, Davis,” I begin. “It’s not the life we deserve.”

“Don’t speak for me,” he mutters back.

“Speak for yourself then,” I return, with nothing harsh to my voice, having little energy for this fight. But my words still get him to turn around.

Water and suds drip from his hands onto the floor, and I feel one of mine gesturing toward the dish towel, but I leave my hand in my pocket, my arm still at my side when he has the thought himself and grabs for the thin strip of cloth.

“So you’re just going back?” He questions my decision like it’s something abrupt, but I’ve been wanting to go back since I left.

“It’s been my home for the last six years,” I say. “It’s where I was building my life.” Andhereit just stopped. “It’s where I was me. This isn’t me.” My eyes shift around the space we’rein, a shrug in my shoulders.

“And did you talk to him? Does he want you to come back?”

My stare drops to his hands, clinging to that cloth the same way mine cling to my jacket. “He never wanted me to leave,” I say, with the confidence of knowing Jasper, but with my small doubts from the memory of who he was in the last moments I saw him.

“So you’re gonna go chase after your dead boyfriend’s kid brother?” There’s a stress in his throat onkid, both that and his unthinking assumption giving me a kick to get him tothink, to keep the focus on us, onme.

---