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After a long, heavy sigh, she crumples the paper her croissant was wrapped in and wipes the crumbs off her face with the back of her hand. Then she pauses near a large fountain before speaking. “Three years ago, my mom passed away. She had breast cancer.”
“I’m so sorry, Daisy,” I say, interrupting her as she plasters a fake smile on her face, something I’ve noticed she does a lot. Forcing herself to appear brave and unaffected.
“Thank you.” She looks down at her hands as she continues. “I was supposed to go to college. The plan was music school, but she passed just after I graduated high school. It was all too much at once. Then, I just got stuck for a while. And I thought the only way to get myself unstuck would be to just run away. My life was so dreary, and I just wanted it to be…poetic.”
I find myself leaning closer until I’m standing almost pressed against her, her hip against mine and her hair near my nose again, so I can inhale her delicate scent. “Poetic?”
When her eyes lift, her gaze finding mine, I feel something shift. “You know… Something adventurous, with art and music and poetry. I had these big dreams about driving around the country in my van and collecting these rich experiences. Going to museums and hearing musicians play, and then I could just write my music, journal my experiences, and be truly free, without any idea where it would lead to next.”
“I think that sounds beautiful,” I mutter, my eyes not leaving her face for a moment. Then I touch her little button nose. “You are a dreamer, Daisy.”
Then her expression falls. “Yeah, well, dreams are just dreams, and life is not poetic at all. I ended up serving martinis in a sex club, so…”
She steps back, and I hate the listless expression on her face.
“Life can be very poetic, Daisy. But that doesn’t mean it will always be pretty.”
With a shrug, she shoots me a small smile. “I guess.”
“Give it a chance. It just might surprise you.” My hand is itching to reach for hers. It would be inappropriate to hold her hand, but I’m struggling to get through an hour without touching her. She crawled into my bed that night, and it was all over for me. Waking up with her in my arms was the nail in my coffin.
We act like friends, but friends don’t feel the overwhelming urge to protect the other, not like this. I want to take care of her. I want her to be mine in a way I haven’t felt in a very long time.
I want to own Daisy. I bet she would submit beautifully.
But if I fuck her, the way I desperately want to, can I promise myself I won’t push her away after?
Can I promise my stupid broken heart that it won’t get hurt again?
No.
My fists clench subtly as we continue our walk. I let her lead the way, wishing for an opportunity to touch her again.
“Did you grow up in Briar Point?” she asks, making small talk as we stroll through the park. The sound of children playing nearby grows louder as we reach the larger fountain, little remote-controlled boats streaming across the water.
“Yes, I did,” I reply. “Not far from the club, actually.”
“Really?” she asks, stepping closer, so our arms graze each other’s.
“It was just my mother and me. She had to work two jobs to make ends meet. I wanted to give back to her when I grew up, but instead of going to college, I met Julia, and we got married very young. A couple years later, Miles came along. I was just getting started in business, and doing pretty well. Well enough to support them.”
I pause, taking a deep breath before continuing on. It’s not hard to talk about them anymore, but it does cost me a bit of my peace. When I feel ready, I go on.
“Then one morning, she was taking him to the store and they were hit by a driver speeding the wrong way in their lane. Just like that, they were gone.”
“Ronan…” she mumbles, as if to tell me I don’t have to talk about it.
I don’t know why I feel the need to tell her this part. I guess I’ve never felt so comfortable with other women before. But it’s so easy with Daisy.
“It’s all right. I can talk about them.”
With a small smile, she loops her arm through mine, and I fight back the grin that aches to come out. The tension slides off my shoulders like melting wax.
“Keep going,” she whispers.
Slowly we meander our way toward the busy city street.
“After my wife and son died, I buried myself in my work. It allowed me to hide from the pain and loneliness, so that my life became nothing more than business, money, and success.”
