The one where I made love to her. I pull open the dresser drawer and slide the hair ties onto my wrist. Then, I place the glass of wine on the nightstand and sit back against the headboard.
I embrace the pillow she slept on and sniff it. The only way I’ve been able to get some shut eye is by hugging it and pretending it's her. I haven’t washed the sheets, which still smell of her. I told my cleaning service not to come into my bedroom or hers. I want to keep the clothes she dropped on her dresser and the shoes she pulled off in her closet exactly as she left it.
It makes me miss her more when I see them, but it’s also reassuring. A reminder that she’ll be back.
I’m acting like someone who’s lovesick. I tense.
For the firsttime in my life, not only am I feeling the emotions, but I’m also acting on them. It doesn’t alarm me. It feels normal. Healthy, even.
Except, I'm miserable.
She told me she loved me, and I was unable to repeat those three words. I left her standing alone on the edge of an emotional precipice.
She made herself vulnerable.
But I didn’t. I couldn't. My OCD and PTSD demand control. The only way I've kept them quiet is by keeping myself closed. Controlled.
My rib cage tightens. My breath comes in pants. I need her by my side to calm me down. I want her with me, under my roof, where I can take care of her. I reach for my phone and pull up her number. Then stop.
She asked for space. I have to respect that.
Instead, I dial Tristan’s number.
He picks up on the first ring. “How are you?” His face fills the screen. Then he catches sight of my features and winces. “That bad?”
I scratch my chin.
I’m not going to pretend I’m anything but miserable. Part of my new resolution is to not hide what I’m feeling.
“It’s not good.” I crack my neck. “She told me she loved me.” I say without preamble.
It’s taken me five days to process her declaration, and as I say it aloud, something deep inside me flickers to life.
"And you told her…what?" Tristan’s expression turns serious.
"That’s the problem, I didn’t.” Frustration bubbles through my veins. I jump out of bed and begin to pace.
"You do love her, don’t you?"
"I do."
"So, tell her." Tristan looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Which I slowly am. Coming home to a space without her is gutting me in a way I’ve never experienced before.
My heart tightens. A sharp pang pinches my chest. I rub at it.
"You okay?" Tristan frowns. "You don’t look very good."
I have never confided in anyone else. Not my uncle or my siblings, or even my teammates in the Marines, about my personal life. That's my protocol. Keep emotions contained, locked down, and inaccessible.
It's kept me functional for thirty years.
It’s kept me safe.
But it's also kept me isolated.
I've been learning to feel again, thanks to Harper. I let her crack the ice around my heart. I’ve let myself acknowledge the heat and the hunger, and the terrifying realization that I don't just want her body. I want her laughter. Her support. Her defiance. Her presence in my space, even when she's driving me insane.
