Page 65 of Touch Me

And the quiet.

So quiet.

I exchanged a few text messages with Jess over the weekend, assuring her that Cassie was fine after sleeping much of the day. I paced the floor inside my bedroom door after leaving her in the elevator and only took a full breath of air after hearing her cleaning up and mumbling to herself in the bathroom. Once I was sure she made it to her room, I left Henry to watch over her—I didn’t deserve his, or anyone’s company after the way I left her.

Max picked him up yesterday, and the only peep I heard out of Cassie was her loving on Henry and saying goodbye. I completely avoided all conversation with Max, knowing he was curious about her and how she came to be here. And more importantly, how I was handling it. Since not offering up information or willingly participating in conversation isn’t out of the norm for me, he didn't push the issue and left without a second thought.

All I have now are second thoughts. I shouldn’t have reached out and grabbed her. But I was honest with her about that. I didn’tthink.After the guilt I felt letting her fall the first time, I would make the same choice again. Even though it led to me ripping my shield open for her to see all the ugly parts I try so hard to keep locked away.

Did I say exactly how I felt? Yes. Did it come out all ragey and stabby? Also yes. That reaction in itself is something I’m not used to voicing, but then adding to it the anger I felt, the things I said to her. Not only was it an unwelcome glimpse into my mind and soul, but I scared her...again. I saw the same look on her face that I saw years ago. I think I’d rather see pity in her eyes than fear.

Then she returns drunk and stumbling, with scooter guy pawing all over her. I sawred, and before I knew what was happening, I intentionally put my hands on someone for the first time in a long time and it was to toss him aside. To protect a girl who didn’t want protection. She was into it and therein lies the problem. I’m so beyond jealous I can’t think straight. I couldn’t tell you how he felt beneath my hands—I don’t remember. Seeing him touch her numbed everything.

She probably thought I was angry with her, but all the rage I felt was directed inward. I was having a hard enough time dealing with my own thoughts, and she kept poking me. I struggle just being in a room with her, and yet, scooter guy, a complete stranger, can come along and lay his hands all over her with no problem. It’s driving me mad.

The way she looked at me in the elevator. Hearing her say she thinks I don’t want to touch her. All the anguish I feel being locked in this useless body, it all boiled over. If she only knew. If she only knew I wanted to pin her to the wall and kiss the fuck out of her, throw her over my shoulder, and haul her to my bed like the caveman I feel raging inside.

But he isn’t me.

He isn’t confined and restrained by this body, this brain. He isn’t bound by any restrictions. The man in my head, the one I want to be, is free. Free to touch and feel. Free to love.

But I’ll never be him. And I’m getting damn tired of him living in my head. It’s time to expel the fantasy and resign myself to the life I was destined to live.

Which means Cassie has to go. It was part of the deal we made.

Herdeal.

* * *

After a fruitless dayfilled with anxiety and rehearsing a speech I would rather sit across from my dad at Thanksgiving dinner than deliver, bile coats the back of my throat when the elevator doors open. I know I have to tell Cassie it’s best if she leaves. It will undoubtedly cause her to scramble to find a place to live and will uproot what little foundation she has cemented here.

This is probably the only place she has ever cemented anything, and the feeling in my chest at being the one to rip that away isn’t one I’m familiar with. But she’s strong, willful, stubborn even, and I know this won’t knock her down. She has survived and thrived under much worse conditions.

This is me trying to muster up the guts for theI’m confident you can handle this,or theit’s better this wayspeech.

I wish I was more confident in my ability to not only tell her it’s what I need but also in my ability to look her in her eyes and make her believe it's what I really want. I feel like it’s the right thing to do, but the thought of not having her here, of never seeing her again, has my stomach slowly inching its way up to my throat.

My eyes close as I listen for the telltale click of her shoes on the tile. A sound that two weeks ago had my shoulders bunching up around my ears, but has since been replaced by the anticipation of her sunshiny smile and summery scent. Instead, I hear a click and shuffle. Click and shuffle. When I turn toward the sound, I see her limping in, carrying her purse, laptop bag, and one shoe as she drags her bare foot behind her.

When our eyes meet, hers hold more than the weight of physical pain. I may be shit at reading people, but her downturned mouth and glossy gaze paint a look of doubt. I don’t know whether it’s doubt in how this interaction is going to play out after this weekend or if she’s doubting herself for some reason. My default is always to assume it’s doubt in me, but I don’t think that’s the case this time.

There’s no chance she doesn’t remember the first half of Saturday night. I’d be willfully ignorant in hoping she doesn’t remember the second half. It looks like she remembers every painstakingly embarrassing minute of it. I’m not sure what else I see in her eyes. Is it guilt? Apprehension? She definitely feels something, but whatever it is, I don’t want to know.

With my eyes locked on her face trying to decipher her expression, our eyes meet and everything else fades away. The distance between us shrinks to nothing, as if we’re gravitating toward one another, but neither of us has moved. It’s in that instant I know I’m not asking her to leave. She has cemented herself right into my life, and whether she knows it or not, whether she feels it or not, I need her.

I may never tell her. Who am I kidding? I know I’ll never tell her. She can stay as long as she needs to, and it’ll be her who decides when she leaves. Whether we stay friends after this, or whether I never see her again, I hope she remembers me as someone who was always in her corner. Someone who always believed in her.

“What happened?” I stand and take the steps up to the foyer.To her.

“I’m fine. I must’ve twisted my ankle the other night. And my knee apparently. They’re both a little sore. But I’m fine, really.”

“You’re not fine.” Her ankle and knee are both visibly swollen. “You can barely walk.” When I move to reach for her bag and purse, she pulls back and hops on her good leg.

“I’m fine. There’s no chance of you grabbing these and not touching me, and the weight is keeping me balanced.”

“Quit saying you’re fine.” I run my hands through my hair, wishing for the hundredth time I had some semblance of control over my actions and could sweep her into my arms and carry her.

Useless fucking body.

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