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And then he waltzes back into town—although it was his job that brought him and no other reason—and acts as if it is okay to resume his role beside me. It is not so simple.
It sounds strange, but I mourned his loss. Literally mourned him. Laid in my bed for weeks, aside from school, and cried until the tears would no longer fall. I lost sleep over him, far too many hours to track. This went on for months. So many months it was almost a year before I stopped crying for
him. But the crying wasn’t the end of it. It got replaced with well-disguised depression. Depression that still lingers to this day.
I won’t let myself be that girl again. He can’t do this. Make me fall in love with him again and then hop on a plane and fly back to the other coast. I won’t survive. Not again.
Coolness replaces the heat of his breath at my ear, but I know he hasn’t shifted far because his chest still rises and falls against mine. Not knowing what I will see, I take a chance and open my eyes and am met with the softest gaze. His grays spill into me. Plead with me. Implore me. Their silky silence calls to my heart and begs me to be something more. Begs me to be vulnerable for him again. And it hurts that I want to. So much.
“You can’t say that. Not to me.” The harsh scrape of my own words is an unfamiliar sound to my ears.
His eyes hold mine as he weaves his fingers between my own. “Why?”
“Because you can’t say things like that and then leave me,” I blurt, my body trembling. “The last time you left.” My voice breaks. “It took me a really long time to find myself again. And even after I did, there were still days I lapsed. If it happens again…”
His eyes darken as he studies me. If he moves two inches closer, his lips will be on mine. And as much as I long to know how it would feel again, I fear the consequences my heart will endure.
“I’m sorry how things happened last time. You know I had no control in that scenario. But now…” He takes my chin between his thumb and first finger. “You and I have all the control.”
“Do we?” I counter. “We live almost three thousand miles apart. How do we have control?”
The pad of his thumb brushes over my lower lip, causing me to close my eyes and suck in a breath. Blood whooshes loudly in my ear. My fingers tighten around his. Adrenaline parades throughout my body as flutters swarm beneath my sternum.
“What if we didn’t live so far apart?”
Red and yellow lights spin circles around us when my eyes bolt open. Hundreds of people hurl globes of plastic-resin along oil-slicked hardwood in the hopes of knocking over wooden pins. Music wails from speakers and I have zero clue as to what is playing. Our friends resumed bowling without us, presumably playing our turns when they came around.
“What?” I stumble. The question is twofold. One—did I hear him correctly? Two—is he suggesting what I think he is suggesting? That one of us moves?
“It’s something I’ve thought about for a while now. The only reason I moved away was because I had to. That’s not a sufficient enough reason for me to be there anymore.”
My mind dizzies with his confession. Part of me is ecstatic at the possibility of him moving back to Florida. Another part of me is wary. Wary things can never go back to how they were, regardless of how either of us feels.
“But how? Your job. Friends. Life,” I ramble.
His thumb strokes my lip again and he moves a breath closer. “I can do my job from anywhere. As it is, I’m almost never home. I fly somewhere new every week or two. But I’ve stockpiled and I can lessen how much I work. As well as be pickier about the shoots I do. The few friends I have there will understand. Believe me. And my life? It has never been in Cali. I may live there, but my life is here. Always has been.”
This is too much information all at once. My free hand comes up to his bicep and I brace myself against his weight. I can’t get my hopes up. Not again. Not after last time.
“I need to sit down,” I tell him.
He helps me to a seat and squats down in front of me. The look in his eyes says three words I haven’t said to another soul since he left. And right now, it is way too much.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he stammers.
I memorize his expression and then drop my head in my hands. “I’m thinking this is going to slay me in the end. That I’ll wither and crumble.”
His fingers play with the strands of my hair that cover my hands. It is a balm to the conflicting emotions that spiral around my heart. And I temporarily relish in the feel of such an intimate gesture.
“I won’t let that happen,” he promises.
My head jerks up. “How can you be certain? How can you make such a colossal vow?”
His eyes lock on mine, assurance backing his words. “Because it’s the only thing I’ve wanted since I was forced to leave you. Cora…” he says as he strokes a hand down the side of my face. “You are everything to me. You are the reason I breathe.”
I drop my head back into my hands, hiding my face from the world and convincing myself not to cry. After a few minutes, I inhale deeply and force myself upright. When I check the time, I realize an hour has passed and guilt washes over me at how I have abandoned my friends.
“We need to continue this conversation, but not now. Right now, I need to drink more and throw a ten-pound ball. I need to hang out with my friends. Okay?”
