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Please Santa, give me Gael and a life together this Christmas. Make him stay. Please.
I close my eyes and squeeze them until they hurt, because I don’t want to cry. I’m tired of it. What I want to do is fight. Fight until what I want is mine. And if Gael wants to stay, I want him to be with me forever.
Till death do us part.
First things first, though. I needed to have a serious, heart-to-heart conversation with him. But it can wait until after Christmas. It’s only a few days before the holidays, so what I’ll do is make him understand how lucky he is to have a second chance with me.
In this bed, while keeping Gael close and inhaling his scent, now so similar to mine, I make my plan to win back the man who broke my heart. The man I want, no matter what.
I’m looking forward to hearing my sisters telling me, ‘We told you so.’ And for once I’ll be overjoyed hearing those awful words, because it’ll mean Gael is mine.
Mine.
Saying that word makes me giddy, and willing to forget what was, so we can enjoy what we will be. Is that really a possibility? Calling Gael mine and having him for myself again?
I stay in bed, listening to his deep breathing, simultaneously wishing for and fearing the moment he wakes up. Because then we’ll have to talk, we’ll have to show our cards, and we’ll have to reveal to each other the pain we went through. My only hope is that by doing that, we’ll be able to move forward.
Am I building castles in the sky?
A deeper breath coming from Gael has me focusing my attention on him, and then on the smile curving his lips—the first since we met again—and that gives me hope. So, I let all doubts fade away, and enjoy the closeness and warmth coming from him. I caress his hair, and when he snuggles closer a joyful giggle rumbles through me.
Fuck! This . . . Him and me, together. It’s what I’ve always wanted.
Us in bed, so close we are one. Us in everyday life, talking about the future, talking about our day, and talking about how important we are to each other.
I kiss his hair, and a mix of anger and love passes through me, but also the need to know becomes imperative.
My heart breaks and fills with even more love for this broken man, when he rubs his eyes and another small smile curves his lips upward. All those happy feelings morph into pity and the need to protect when he suddenly rises. His face is distorted in fear and makes him look as if he aged seventy years in a second. I’m not fast enough to stop him when tries to leave the bed without remembering his injuries. The loud grunt of pain he releases has me placing a hand on his back to comfort him. But he turns as quickly as a snake ready to attack. I don’t move a muscle and after three, four blinks of his eyelids, he seems to be fully awake. Recognition and shame dispel the fear, and I’m glad, because it means that he knows who I am and he trusts me.
I don’t talk, but give him time to relax, and then I touch him, sharing my warmth with him. His eyes filling with tears tell me how in need he is of affection and peace. I wipe the single tear travelling down his cheek with a gentle touch. Then, when he seems to have found his bearings, I try to dissipate the heavy air still lingering in the room.
“Shower?”
The loud growl coming from his stomach has the expression of shame intensifying, but has my lips curving in a smile.
“Breakfast?”
He nods and smiles back.
“Let me get something ready, and you can have a quick shower in the meantime. Does that sound good?”
His indecision is probably driven by the need to follow me, but the need to clean up is clear on his face. I’m quick to reassure him because I have the same fear. The bone-deep panic is telling me, whispering in my ear, that he’ll disappear in front of my eyes, and that everything will have been just a figment of my imagination.
“I’m just outside the door. I’ll leave it open so I can hear if you need help. Towels are in the cabinet inside the bathroom. Help yourself to everything you need.”
He looks at me for a few seconds, and then nods again. I slowly remove my hand from his back and turn around to leave the bed, just to be stopped by his words.
“Thank you, Cammy.”
I bristle at the nickname, but it fills me with joy at the same time, because he still remembers.
“I know I don’t deserve it.”
I grip the sheets to avoid vomiting out every single thing I want to say to him. It’s not the right moment, and it wouldn’t be fair to him.
I don’t want to be the kind of person who enjoys someone else’s defeat. I’m the type who gives people the benefit of the doubt, especially those who hurt me the most. Because it means I cared for them at some point, and they cared for me too.
And I don’t want to be a bully and kick him when he’s down. What I want is to have a conversation, like proper adults. I have to remember that he was always by my side when we were younger, when I needed him the most. Now, I’ll be here for him.
