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But only if he’ll let me. He needs to want to change.
Right now’s not the time for that though.
I just want to hold him and for things to fall back into place.
Just for tonight.
I’m too conflicted to deal with all of this right now. I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong, or what the fuck I’m doing.
The sound of my heels clicking on the pavement is muted by the thin layer of fresh snow as we walk up the cement path to his front porch.
Once we get inside, Derek sets his keys down on the table to the left of the door. The white rectangular table almost blends in with the walls. He helps me out of my coat as I continue to look around. Slate floors lead into a hallway beyond the open staircase. The light from the glass and iron pendant chandelier glimmers on the walls and ceiling. His place is amazing.
But it’s drug money. My eyes close tight and my heart thuds to a halt. I think. I don’t know.
“Stop thinking about it, Emma,” he says as he hangs our coats on cast iron hooks by the door, as if he could read my mind just now. I don’t answer him, although for some reason I feel guilty.
He leads me up the open staircase. All the while I can’t look at him, my heart beating so fast. I’m too nervous to even touch the railing, although without his hand on my back I’m not sure I’d be able to walk steadily.
I know I have a choice right now, to stay and be with him, or to leave. I need to decide right now. But I can’t. I can hardly breathe. I hate that I’m just going with it, falling deeper into whatever it is we have. It’s all I’ve ever done, but it’s also all I want.
The black steel-frame lamp turns on automatically as we walk into the spacious bedroom. He lets go of my hand and walks into the en suite bathroom. I stare at the bed. It has to be a king with how large it is. The dark grey comforter has silver threading that gleams in the soft lighting. My heart thuds over and over again, the blood rushing in my ears.
I’m hot and ready for him. I wantthis. But it comes with so much. It means so much more to me.
And what does it mean to him?
“Make yourself at home,” he calls out as he turns on the faucet.
I slowly walk over and sit down in the navy armchair in the corner of the room, the bathroom and therefore Derek, visible from my seat.
His room is so masculine, sohim. But it’s devoid of warmth. It’s missing a crucial piece of him. The piece he gives to me.
The smoky grey walls are bare, the only picture sitting on the nightstand. A little boy and a young mother smile together as they pose on top of the mountain they just climbed.It must be Derek and his mom, I think as I squint slightly to make out the picture across the room better.
I can't just sit here. I get up quickly, my blood feeling as though it’s on fire, and cross the room to his bathroom. Derek’s opening a bottle of peroxide to pour on the cuts on his knuckles.
“Let me help you,” I say as I walk across the white marble floor. I take the bottle from him without waiting for a response and slowly pour the solution over his hand. His hand is so large and rough to the touch. I like holding it though. I like the abrasive feel. I concentrate on tending his knuckles. The cuts aren’t as bad as I would have guessed from the way he was hitting that guy, and the blood that was there.
But that may not have been his blood.
“You really beat the piss out of him,” I say as I twist the cap back onto the bottle. My heart feels like it’s in my throat.
His eyes are on the floor as he says, “Yeah.” He leans against the sink, his gaze occasionally flicking to mine, but I don’t look back.
“You didn’t have to, you know,” I tell him, trying not to sound like I’m scolding him. I squeeze some Neosporin onto his knuckles as he sighs and then grunts a response.
I wait, staring up at him and willing him to look at me, but he doesn’t.
“I know,” he says quietly as he shakes his head.
“So why’d you do it?” I can’t help but to ask him. Asking is the way to get answers. I know that from my classes and from working with the kids at school. I hate comparing Derek to them, but he’s like them in so many ways. Right now, all I want to do is help him.
I lay the gauze over his bloodied knuckles and wrap the medical tape around his hand while I wait for him to answer me, but nothing comes.
Derek looks like he’s not going to tell me anything, and I shake my head feeling my throat go dry. I can’t do this. I can’t be with someone who won’t talk to me. I clean up the first aid kit and put it back in the cabinet under the double sinks, not speaking as he moves out of the way.
“He reminded me of my father,” he says before I can walk out of the bathroom. I stop in the doorway, waiting for more.
