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I stare at the phone, confused . . . no, it’s more like conflicted with the text and our earlier encounter.
How can he expect me to be there after . . . after that charged moment between us earlier. For a split second, my resolve wavered, and I almost slammed my lips against his. I just needed a taste of him. I wanted to urge him to erase the space between us, to erase all the pain. I almost begged him to fuck me the way he used to back when life was simple. No, back when I lived a lie.
A dull throb starts at the base of my skull, and my fingers instinctively pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the mounting tension.
Fuck you, Brahms Ehrenberg.
As much as he infuriates me, the undeniable pull I feel toward him is maddening. My mind may reject the notion, but my body . . . my body yearns for his touch.
His weight on top of mine as he drives himself deep inside of me, claiming me. Making me feel alive.
This is definitely a me problem. I groaned internally. Why the hell did I hug him?
It was an impulse, that’s all. He’s been working so hard trying to regain mobility in his hand, but I’m glad he managed to move his fingers. It wasn’t much, but I dare to call this a miracle. The assessment wasn’t clear, but during my call with Dr. Solarez, he said the prognosis wasn’t looking good. Brahms might not be able to use his hand like before.
I don’t have the heart to tell him that. I’m painfully aware how devastated he would be if he couldn’t play music anymore. As much as I resent him, I don’t want to see that happen. It’d be a tragedy.
Everything about him and our relationship now is tragic. I was just telling my therapist this morning about our years together. It was a good discussion, though I discovered something while doing so. Once I peeled back layers of my resentment and frustration toward Brahms, I finally saw his wounded soul.
It revealed a man who’d faced unbearable losses.
Brahms is a lonely man. If I take away all my feelings and I study him closely I see the anger and hurt—the broken man grieving all he’s lost since his mother died. When she passed, he had a support system—his family, his music, even us. Now . . . he has no one, maybe not even a way to play those beautiful melodies that come from within his soul.
His addictions are merely a way to numb the persistent pain. Seeing him finally move his hand gave me hope for him. For the boy I met so long ago who was kind, loving, and became my entire world. Even when I hate him, a piece of my heart will always belong to him, maybe even love him.
A deep sigh escapes my lips, a potent mix of confusion and nostalgia washing over me. Fuck. Why do feelings have to be so complicated?
Brahms: Hello, are you there?
I am, but I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to respond to him or even go upstairs for our daily argument.
Brahms: Is this thing on?
I muster the courage and respond:
Sephie: Yeah?
Brahms: You can do better than: yeah. Where’s my sassy girl?
I almost scoff at that question. There’re so many ways to respond to it. There’s an uncomfortable pause, a heavy silence where only the unsaid words linger inside my head. My fingers hesitate over the keys, thoughts jumbling and heart racing.
His sassy girl is . . . I can’t respond to him.
To avoid that subject, I try to think of something else, anything else. All I can think of is his scent. The lingering feeling of his muscular frame against me, still fresh in my memory, had stirred something deep within.
What would have happened if I had acted? Honestly, I was ready to pull down his shorts and ride his hard cock. Okay, I don’t know if it was hard, but a woman can only hope, right?
It’s been almost seven years since the last time I had sex, and the toys in the closet are good, but not as good as him. Thankfully, my logical brain reprimanded my wayward thoughts.
Brahms: Can you not ignore me?
Sephie: What do you need?
Brahms: I wanted to check on you. You didn’t come to our evening session. Is everything okay?
Sephie: I was busy.
Brahms: We have an agreement, Sephie. You’re ignoring the contract—that has legal consequences.
