Page 42 of Craving Oblivion

I opened my eyes and met his turbulent gaze.

“Really?” he murmured.

“No.” The word exploded from me like a gunshot. “No, Nash. I want us to be us again, to find our way. It’s...it’s a lot to process. And then, on top of all that, I want you to...to fuck this sexual tension out of me so I can just go back to being numb. Blissed out...”

I bit my lip, but then I started to giggle at how ridiculous I must sound. Nash smirked, and then he chortled, especially after I broke into a second fit of laughter.

A moment later, we both guffawed. I laughed and laughed, my stomach aching. Finally, we settled back, the release of tension leaving me more relaxed, but also hollow.

Nash leaned closer, careful not to touch me but close enough for me to see each eyelash, to study the variety of browns and golds in his irises.

“Give me this chance; give me now. Let me hold you tonight, in my bed. Let me prove I’m ready to move forward with you. We need this time together.”

I nodded. We did.

“I wish…” I sipped the warm brew, knowing it wouldn’t soothe me enough.

“What do you wish, Ay?”

“I wish we’d been older, more mature, better at expressing ourselves. That I’d given you the opportunity to explain, that I hadn’t hurt you that day. So many things, really.”

Nash nodded, his face settled in solemn lines. “That we’d had less dysfunctional childhoods. Less grief and loss and crazy backstabbing.” He grimaced, rearranging the bag of peas.

“Need some pain meds?”

He shook his head. “I don’t have any pills here because I won’t take anything. Ever.” His face twisted. “I’m like her—my mom. I have that predisposition toward addiction. For me, the best option is to avoid temptation.”

“And that’s worked?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Better than anything else. But it’s only been a few months.”

“Do you miss it? The high, I mean.” I probably shouldn’t have asked. No, I knew I shouldn’t have.

He licked his lower lip. “I miss the numbness. It’s easier to go through life not caring than feeling the way I do for and about you. I missed you, Ay.” His throat worked, his eyes those toss’d seas Shakespeare wrote about. “I’ve missed you every day. At first, I was just angry, but then, it settled, and my longing was so, so huge it ripped into my guts.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I breathed. “I mean, I did, but that just made me feel worse. I understand now that we’ve both made mistakes.” I clasped my hand tighter around my teacup in an effort not to reach for him. If I did, I’d kiss him. Kissing Nash felt…like home.

I glanced around the kitchen. “I never got over leaving Austin. I never loved London. I just… I couldn’t face you.” I inhaled, but it was choppy. “That’s on me. I was…I was so scared you’d hurt me again.”

He raised an eyebrow in that Nash Porter way that said I was on thin ice. I laughed, charmed by his arrogance, which caused him to smile back. His white teeth flashed behind the russet-and-honey stubble, the deep dimple winking in his right cheek. His eyes sparkled like the sun through whiskey. He took my breath, then reached forward with his good hand and clasped my cold fingers.

Warmth pulsed through our touch, reorienting my world.

“I won’t hurt you, Ay,” he said, a vow. “Not on purpose. Never on purpose.”

“I missed you,” I blurted, desperate to fall into his arms. “So much I couldn’t breathe.”

“Same.”

That comforted me because it was our pattern, but more so because of the depth of emotion in that single word.

Fatigue blanketed me again. I needed sleep, but I also wanted him to hold me like he used to. I craved the connection, our closeness. Some return to normalcy. It had been so long.

He sighed, shaking his head. “It’s late. Let’s get you to bed.”

I let him lead me down the hall. He hesitated for a moment in the doorway to his room before he gently tugged me over the threshold. He moved toward his large, gleaming chest of drawers and opened one.

I let my gaze sweep the room, landing on the snapshots on the mantel. I crossed to them. There were two of Nash and Lev, one of his family taken weeks before Lev’s death, but the rest of the photos were me. Some were from our time at Holyoke, but others were more recent. They were press shots, and they appeared to be the originals.

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