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He wants me there to prevent fuckups.
Adam has foot-constantly-lodged-in-the-mouth syndrome.
Which means when he's not silent and brooding, he ends up being rude and unfiltered —social niceties aren't his forte— and those around him end up wishing he hadn't talked at all.
Now, our big brother would really be the one for the job, considering how he easily navigates social situations and how fucking unpleasant is to have me around when pumpkins are scattered all over the place, but he's busy with his little girls and poor Adam's stuck with me as wingman and moral support.
Eric is damn right: our idiot of a brother sells himself too fucking short and has no idea of his self-worth. The guy's an ex Seal with a heart of gold and a damn war hero to boot and he lets a stupid scar incapacitate him in every interaction he has. This fucking ends tonight.
As long as I'm not asked to fucking double-date —I don't fucking date, double or otherwise,thankyoufuckingmuch— I'll do whatever I can to get this lady Adam's crushing on to realize how damn lucky she would be to be my brother's woman.
I know what it means to have your heart ripped out of your chest and I'm not about to idly standby while Adam goes through it as well.
Eric lost his wife. I lost my little doll just as I found her, but by God, Adamwillget the librarian of his dreams. We're not fucking cursed. I need for at least one of us to get a fucking happy ending.
I'm not one of those cynics who believe true love doesn't exist.
I couldn't be after witnessing how deeply my parents loved each other, but up until seven years ago, I thought there was something wrong with me because despite being thirty I had never been in love, not once.
Sure, I had felt attraction like any hot-blooded man could, but it was fleeting and meaningless and those feelings Dad used to talk about when he described his first meeting with Mom were simply out of reach for me.
That when-you-know-you-know kinda thing, that immediate almost mythical connection you were supposed to feel at first sight, the kiss that would end all kisses, that loaded look you would share, that feeling in your gut, in your heart, in your very soul… those things were alien concepts to me.
And then I kicked down Aurora's door and plucked her up from her bed while smoke and fire devoured her apartment.
Just from holding her soft, tiny form in my arms, I knew. Just from the way she clung to me. Just from the way the need to soothe the fear in her wide, sky-blue eyes ripped into me, I was sure.
A word from her mouth, a kiss of those plump pale pink lips, the feeling of her heartbeat pulsing at her throat under my thumb.
The certainty I felt that my life as I knew it was about to change forever, that I was holding my future and every dream and hope I was ever going to nurture in my existence right in my arms.
That was enough.
Enough for me to know.
Enough for me to be screwed over forever when she walked away from us.
Enough for turning me allergic to dating for the past seven fucking years and not even missing having a warm body under my own.
Seven years of utter solitude, and I still would go seven more easily if I was promised that at the end of them I could once more hold Aurora Roses in my arms.
In truth, there was nothing extraordinary about the circumstances of our first and only meeting aside from the mind-blowing, heart-shattering, soul-rearranging feelings that I experienced.
I've kicked down more doors than I can count and dragged, carried, and helped just as many people out of burning rooms since I first donned my firefighting gear in my early twenties. Rescuing people always gives me a rush. It makes me happy like nothing else in the world ever could. There's nothing I love more than helping someone out of a difficult, dangerous situation, but with my little doll in my arms, crushed to my chest, her warm breath fanning against my neck as her trembling arms surrounded my shoulders, that joy that I feel in being of service was the last thing on my mind.
I was fucking terrified. Petrified. The knowledge that she had been in danger, that she could have died in her room brought such an acute pain in my chest, I can only vaguely compare it to the way I felt when first my dad and then my mom passed away.
And then we were out of that fucked up, construction-code nightmare of a building, and the elation I felt was out of this world.
There I was, standing in full protective-bear mode with what I knew would be the only woman I would ever love cradled to my chest, paramedics trying to take her away from me, my eyes darting all over her gorgeous doll-like face, the heady scent of roses coming off her mussed, golden locks strong enough to be predominant even with the acrid smoke all around us.
Sometimes I tell myself that my memory's probably failing me, that she couldn't be as beautiful as I'm making her out to be in my mind, and even if she were as stunning as I remember her, then maybe what I felt was just the rush of the save tangled up with an insane dose of lust, but I can never believe that for long.
Even if I did not believe in fate, or true love, even if it wasn't just too fucking perfect that our very damn names seemed to go together, even if our first meeting hadn't been wrought with danger, apprehension and grief, how could lust hold me captive for this long, especially when I haven't laid eyes on her in years?
That's how I know it was real. Unfortunately, fucking one-sided for sure, but real.
She was the real deal for me and the thought of what we could have had, the thought of all the things I'm never going to have, sometimes grows to be too much. Especially in fucking October.
