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It's her confidence, her assertiveness, her complete control over her life that seems to make me feel like I can control mine. It's addicting to be around, and I crave the moments where I see it exhibited. I feed off it. It energizes me despite my lack of sleep.
Watching her sleep is my newfound heaven. She's so peaceful for being the little spitfire she is when she’s awake. She's become a welcome distraction from the pain I've been withholding.
Last night, she called out to me. Dylan said my name in her sleep, reached out for my arm and pulled it around her waist, snuggling into my bare chest as she dozed back off. Explosions were happening inside that chest, loud crashing waves of something bigger. Loud enough, I worried it'd wake her. But it didn't. If anything, it soothed her, my raging heart.
We've been respectful, being that we're in such close proximity to her brother in the room over. Excessive kissing that's given me a set of wrecking balls I could knock any wall down with are a welcome consequence to lips that seem to demand me. But Jesus, if I don't find myself continuously guiding my fingers into places they shouldn't be, wanting to feel that heat building between those thighs just for me.
I'm crazy about her. Studying her as she sleeps, counting her breaths, constantly touching her and trailing those fingers along the baby-soft skin of her bare stomach as I breathe in the smell of her mango-scented shampoo. And tomorrow, she's going to meet the only other woman that's been a staple in my life. The one holding everything together until she fades and everything falls apart.
After the phone call, I ensure Dylan's still sleeping, tucking her in tighter before I throw on my sweatshirt, sweatpants, and earbuds, preparing for a light jog to get my mind right.
Halfway into it, my phone buzzes against my armband with a message.
Chief: I got ghosted by Lake Decker. An NFL player. Best running back in the league. At least this will be a story for the grandkids one day.
She's cute even when she's trying to be upset. Not to mention the adorable way she mentioned grandkids, which meant one day she’ll have kids. I like that she’s thought about it.
I quickly send her a selfie with my tongue sticking out, showcasing the earbuds, with a message that says,Getting a quick run in.
Chief: Your therapist warns against this excessive exercise.
Lake: Not what said therapist was saying last night.
Chief: Cute. Real cute. These lies.
I can feel her grimace through the phone.
She wanted me last night. The kissing on her full-sized bed turned into rubbing, the rubbing turning into a mess of sex organs trying to connect through clothing that wouldn't allow either of us to be satisfied the way we needed. Colin's incessant demand for late-night macaroni didn't help either. But today…today I had a plan.
Lake:I'll be back in ten minutes. Taking you with me today and I don't wanna hear it. We can drop Colin off at work on the way. Now leave me alone, you obsessive stalker.
I put the phone back in my pocket with a satisfied grin and finish my run with a new bounce in my step that only that girl can provide.
Laterthatday,afterwe dropped an excited Colin off at the supermarket for work, Dylan and I drove to the private gym in my high-rise downtown condo in Chicago for our session and got right to work. Therapy, as of late, has been extremely productive. I'm gaining my strength, even though my mind is anxiously pushing to heal faster than my body. Dylan's been supportive and realistic, keeping me grounded as I struggle with the mental hurdles of impatience to the healing that’s keeping me bound.
One step at a time. Such a stupid statement that holds such relevance. Because it actually is one step at a time. Each one slowly providing more strength for the next. But progress and regression are set on a line that keeps slowly stretching further and further apart. As I get better, she gets worse. I don't know how to deal with that fact, so I don't.
Dylan finishes up some of her paperwork and phone calls on a small desk in the corner of the gym, and I get in extra cardio on the stationary bike before completing a quick interview over the phone for a local radio station. Heading up the elevator to my condo, she gets word from Katia that she plans to meet Colin at the apartment when he gets off work later to ensure he’s safe, happy, and healthy. It's the only thing that brings her some sort of comfort, being this far from him. That, and the promise that if he calls for anything at all, we'll race back.
“Come on in,” I comment, holding the door for her.
Her eyes quickly scan the place, her face expressionless as she does it.
If I'm being honest, I'm really fucking anxious about this. She's seeing a glimpse of my lifestyle, one that's clearly a far cry from hers, and by the looks of it, she's turned into a robot again. That's the one thing I can't stand about this girl. There are times when I can hear her voice in my head, calling me names, teasing me, or knowing she wants me to touch her, but then there are times like this. Times when I need to read her but can't at all. I didn't bring her here to gloat or showcase my wealth due to fame. But this life is my reality now and I can't deny it.
I grab some glasses of water for us while she meanders into the large living room, the bright sun shining directly onto the floor-length wall of windows. She's careful as she moves around the large leather furniture with her glass, clutching onto it with both hands, almost afraid she'll trip over the large rug beneath and spill it. Walking up to the sleek, dark tile of the fireplace, she leans in, looking behind the round vases, and somehow spots it immediately.
No one's found it before. Not that I would expect anyone to. I don’t hide it. But no girl I've ever had over has done more than use the fireplace for a backdrop to a photography session. Dylan isn't the type to use me for anything superficial. No, she's perceptive. Especially with the pain I hide. She keeps finding it, keeps drawing it out of me, just as she is now. My chest clenches as I watch from afar.
“God, you were cute. Even when you were frowning,” she says through a smile. She grabs the tiny 3-by-5-inch frame that nearly breaks me every time I look at it. Especially these days.
Holding it up, she points at the picture. “Your mom?”
I nod, setting my glass of water on the island. A sigh leaves my chest. “That was taken the day we moved into our new apartment. She wanted”—I stall for a moment, running a hand along the back of my neck before correcting myself—“needed to document it. Said it was one of those moments.”
One of those moments you need to remember, especially because they hurt and they're hard, but I omit that part.
“She's beautiful, Lake,” she whispers, still holding the photo with such tenderness. “You have her smile.”
