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His freaking weight on me.
“Which means,” he goes on, perspiration dotting his forehead, “you need to let me go before I do something you don’t want me to do.”
I squeeze my limbs around him. “I do.”
“You think you do. You think —”
“No,youthink that you know what I want. But you don’t.”
“You —”
“I don’t want to be dated, okay?”
“What?”
I’m breathing hard now and I don’t like it. I don’t like that after giving me a taste of heaven, he’s ready to snatch it back and bring me down to this cold and cruel world.
“I don’t want to be wooed,” I tell him.
“You don’t.”
“No.”
“So what,” his eyes narrow, “you want to get fucked and forgotten about?”
“I —”
“Becausethat,” he bites out, his body and voice both harsh, “is what will happen. Because that is what I do. I fuck and I forget. I don’t get involved. I don’t date or develop feelings. Not only because I’ve done it before and I didn’t fucking like it but also because I can’t. Not when I have my baby girl to think about. Not when there’s even the slightest chance that she could get hurt in all this. She could get hurt by a woman I bring into her life. She alreadyhas beenhurt, do you understand? By her mother, and she doesn’t even know it yet. So I’m not going to give anyone another chance to hurt my little girl. And with you, she’s got the biggest chance of that, doesn’t she? Because you’re already in her life. She already loves you. And I’m not going to take that away from her just because I can’t stop thinking about her new nanny.”
His fingers carry on flexing and tugging, going at it harder. His eyes begin roaming over my face and he gets a faraway look as he continues, as if this is another confession and he can’t stop himself from making it.
“I can’t stop obsessing over the way she laughs with my baby girl, and tells her stories with her chiming, pretty voice that I hear in my dreams. And how the house always smells like honey even hours after she’s left. Actually it smells like honey pretty much all the time, so sweet and cozy. And so fucking maddening because it also makes me obsess over all the ways I want to unwrap her like she’s a fucking Christmas gift. So I can get to that candy sweet skin and those gorgeous fucking curves. So I can watch them both jiggle and bounce as I make her writhe for me a hundred different ways. And then I can’t stop thinking about how when I’m done, I’ll wrap my arms around her and make her lie on my chest so her big, dark curls are all up in my face. So I can fall asleep surrounded by honey after a long hard day of practice and goddamn resisting her. And move the fuck on from all this craziness.”
By the end of his confession — that I think has to be the biggest one tonight — his eyes are on my spread-out hair. His fingers have twisted in my dress and I’m taking almost all of his weight.
As if telling me all this has been a relief in itself and so his body is tired, and can’t hold itself up.
I totally get it.
I feel the same way.
Like all the weight has been lifted from me as well and I’m made of air.
All the things that were holding me back — years’ worth of rules and limitations, years’ worth of always being cautious and responsible, thinking that having any kind of fun or giving into your feelings like my mother usually does only brings harm — float away.
And I’m free to fall.
I’m free to feel. I’m free to love.
Him.
Not because loving him won’t bring me harm. Of course it would. He just told me, very explicitly, that he won’t ever love me back. But because for the first time in my life I don’t care. I always knew that love and self-preservation don’t go hand in hand and for the first time ever, I don’t care.
I choose love.
I choose to get hurt so I can love him completely.
So I can give him what he so badly wants — me.
