Page 44 of Roses in Summer

And, finally, the person sitting at the end of the couch, dressed in a pale-blue slip, isn’t Seraphina, but Gemma. A very angry, very irate Gemma.

“What the fuck are you doing, Gemma?” I sigh, my tone more resigned than angry. I reach for the blanket on the floor and pull it over my lap and erection as I sit up and lean against the armrest. “Why are you out here?”

“You mean, why is your girlfriend in the house we share, checking on her boyfriend when he’s moaning like a porn star on our couch? Or do you mean why is my boyfriend dreaming about some whore named ‘Seraphina’ now, hmm?”

“I was sleeping, Gemma.”

“So you cheat on me in your sleep?”

Shaking my head at her logic, I bend my knees and move my legs off the couch, turning my body so that my profile is to her. “What are you doing out here, Gemma?”

“Do not turn this on me. I came out to ask you to come to bed and have makeup sex. You’re the asshole who was dreaming about another woman while I was concerned for our relationship. H-how do you think that makes me feel?” her voice stutters, though I’m unsure if it’s from sadness or wounded pride.

Is it sad that I can’t discern the emotions of my girlfriend? Abso-fucking-lutely.

“Gem, fuck.” Running a hand over my face, I shake my head. I don’t know how to feel right now, but I know that the emotions cascading through my veins are predominantly anger, annoyance, and animosity. Swallowing down the rush of emotions, I keep my voice light, attempting to keep irritation from my voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t do it consciously. But we both know this isn’t working, Gemma. Before whatever dream I just had, before last night, we knew it, but we ignored it. We are not working.” I look at my hands in my lap as I continue, “For four months, it’s been fighting, making up, days apart. How much longer can we keep doing this? How much longer can I spend on the couch? How much longer can you spend unhappy, trying to use your body to make up for the fights and the arguments we have? It’s not working, Gem.”

“We were fine until you sawhertonight.” She snarls the accusation. I don’t have to guess who she’s speaking about since I just muttered Seraphina’s name while asleep, pretending to fuck her throat when I was probably just pumping air. Unshed tears shine in Gemma’s eyes, and I frown at her recollection of the evening.

“This has nothing to do with Sera. We have not been okay for a long time. You are so deeply unhappy with my job, my hours, my schedule, and my friends, and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I’m not willing to give up my career. I’m not willing to walk away from my friends, so what’s the solution, Gemma? We stay miserable, living together and having brief moments of happiness, or do we move on?

“Because I can tell you now, I don’t want this. It’s not healthy, and it’s not sustainable.”

Gemma stares at me, the sadness in her eyes morphing to anger as she processes my words. “You’re saying you don’t want me. Be a fucking man and say what you think, Lincoln. Don’t be such a goddamn coward that you hide behind the ‘doing the right thing’ bullshit. God,” she scoffs, unfolding her legs and standing up from the couch. “You’re so goddamn pathetic. I just came out here to apologize, but instead, I had to listen to you call out another woman’s name in your sleep, and yet you’re the one trying to end things with me? Are you fucking dumb? Guys like you”—she waves her hand at me, her face contorting with rage—“do not get women like me. You should be worshipping me. Instead, you act like I kicked your dog because I offered you my mouth on a silver platter—ugh!” She breaks off, stomping to the kitchen.

Wide-eyed, I follow her retreat, curious about what shit she’s about to throw now since that tends to be her outlet when she’s mad. I’ve replaced no less than three sets of dishes, a ceramic serving bowl, and two mirrors from her temper tantrums.

“Gemma, what the fuck are you doing with the knife block?” Surging to my feet, I let the blanket fall from my lap and rush over to Gemma, who just grabbed the fucking knife block from the counter and aimed it at my head.

“Get your fucking hands off of me,” she yells as I reach for the knife block poised above her head. She may be tall at five foot ten, but I have a few inches and the desire not to die on my side.

Wrenching the heavy wooden block and sharp knives from her hold, I cradle them against my chest, turning slightly so that she can’t easily reach for them again. “Gemma, you need to go to the bedroom and sleep off this rage. We’ll talk in the morning.” There’s no reasoning with her in this state, not when she seemingly wants to fucking kill me.

“Stop deciding everything, you bastard. I didn’t say we’re over.”

I raise a brow, looking from her to the set of knives in my hand. “Did you or did you not just try to fucking throw ten pounds of heavy, sharp objects at my head?”

Her face contorts once again, a foot stomp sounding against the floor. “We’re speaking in the morning, Lincoln. You will not leave me. I say when we’re over, not you. Got it?”

Closing my eyes against the mounting frustration, I sigh in defeat. “Go to bed, Gemma. We’re not doing this now.”

She stands there for a moment, a beautiful, angry, half-naked goddess intent on seeking vengeance. I want to be excited about her temper, enthralled by her inability to walk away from me.

But I’m not; I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired of this pattern of yelling and fucking and separating. I know I fucked up by succumbing to a damn dream about the woman I haven’t seen in a long fucking time, but just like I told Gemma, this isn’t about Seraphina. No, it’s about how taxing this relationship has become, how I’ve become a version of myself I fucking hate.

Seemingly accepting my temporary white flag, Gemma nods, her face smoothing to the beautiful mask I know well. “Okay, Linc. We’ll talk in the morning.” Her footsteps are unhurried as she saunters over to me, and though I refuse to watch her approach, I don’t doubt that her slim hips are probably swaying to the beat playing in her mind.

“I love you, Lincoln. I’m sorry,” she whispers as she stops before me. I turn my head, looking into her face. I’m surprised to see a smile on her lips, as though we just had a pleasant conversation about the weather. You’d never know that the last twenty minutes happened if it wasn’t for the angry glint in her eyes or the taut lines around her mouth.

She leans up and attempts to drag her lips against mine, but I turn my head, facing the wall so that her lips meet my jaw. “Don’t, Gemma. Don’t touch me right now.”

“God,” she screeches, walking past me and shoving me with her shoulder in the process. I don’t relax until the bedroom door slams shut and a heavythunksounds from the inside of the room, no doubt a shoe, a bag, or a lamp being thrown.

Depositing the knife block on the counter, I contemplate if I should lie down with it in case Gemma comes out of the room and decides to stab me.

“Don’t be fucking paranoid,” I mutter to myself, walking away from the block and thoughts of Gemma as one of those women onSnapped. I pick up the blanket on the floor on my way back, tossing it over my shoulder like a damn life preserver.

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