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She takes my hand and lifts it to her face. Her touch is like a sedative. My mind shuts down, the weight of my regrets too much, and I succumb to my exhaustion.
I have only enough energy to pray she wasn’t a dream.
2
I’m warm.So damn warm. I gingerly allow my eyes to peel open, the dusky light not quite dusky enough not to hurt. I look down my body, squinting, seeing blankets coating every inch of me. My sensitive skin feels tender under them. I’m sweating, suffocating, so I lethargically push the stifling material down my body in search of some air. How did I get here? With blankets and a pillow?
I reach up to my pounding head, putting pressure on my temple to try and dull the pain. “Fuck,” I murmur. There’s only one cure.
Vodka.
And I need it before my mind has a chance to kick in after it’s fought through the fog, before it has a chance to remind me of where I am and why I’m here. What I’ve lost.
I swing my legs off the couch and scan the room in search of my savior.
And nearly stop breathing.
“Ava?” Her name falls past my lips, sounding like a desperate plea. She’s here? I rub my eyes, certain my mind is playing tricks on me, certain the vodka is fucking me over. I’m dreaming. I’m still asleep. She can’t be here. Why would she be?
I open my eyes, bracing myself for the disappointment, and slump back against the couch when I find her still curled up in the chair. I can do no more than watch her, waiting for my reality to catch up and take her away. For her to disappear.
Yet ten minutes later, she’s still in the chair. Fast asleep. Peaceful.
Swallowing hard, I push my hands into the sofa, but quickly take my weight off them when pain shoots up my arm. I hiss and assess the swollen, purple mass, turning it over, gingerly flexing it. It’s ugly. The reasons behind the injury are ugly. Everything in my life is ugly.
Except . . .
I divert my attention to the chair again. “Except you,” I whisper, using my legs to get me up. Every bone in my body cracks until I’m standing; I’m feeling dizzy and lightheaded. And old. Jesus, I feel so fucking old.
I give myself a few moments to stabilize, drinking in as much oxygen as I can before I attempt to put one foot in front of the other. My steps are tentative. Every time a foot meets the floor, it sends shockwaves up my legs, through my torso, before exploding in my head. But I endure the punishment, accept it, take it all.
I make it to the chair and lower to my haunches, reaching for her hair. Her beautiful, dark, shiny hair. Her face looks a little blotchy.Tears. And yet every part of this woman is so alive and vivid. And every part of me is dull and dead. I could tarnish her beauty. Strip her of her sass. I could ruin her. Maybe I already have. “I love you,” I whisper, as if in apology. As if those three words are an acceptable excuse for what I have done. I have nothing else. I love this woman with a crippling intensity. It’s a love that sends me into a new kind of madness. A madness that’s far more appealing than my past craziness. Through no fault of her own, Ava’s become my crux. A reason for me to go on.
I exhale heavily, the silky strands of her hair sliding through my fingers, feeling soft against my sore skin. And suddenly, her eyes open. I fucking hate the torment I see in her stare as she slowly comes around. I did that. I caused that.
She blinks and shoots up from the chair, and I startle, my tired body not working fast enough to stop me falling back.
“Shit,” she yelps.
I flinch at the harshness of her language, as well as the volume. “Watch your mouth,” I croak, fighting my way to my feet and dropping onto the couch, fucking exhausted.
“You’re awake.”
Fuck me, she needs to turn her volume down. My eardrums feel like they could burst along with my head. There’s no denying she’s seen me at my absolute worst. But... she’s here. For once, I haven’t got to chase her down. Although she looks ready to bolt at any moment, her eyes wide and panicked, her body rigid as she backs up to a chair and lowers.
The silence is unbearable as she looks at me, her mind obviously racing. I can see the endless questions running circles, while endless excuses loop mine. Endless apologies. Endless regrets.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, breaking the awkward silence but somehow making the atmosphere even more uncomfortable. I breathe out, looking down at my mess of a hand. Black. Purple. Blue. Yellow. Every phase of bruising you could imagine adorns my swollen limb. And it hurts again. It really fucking hurts.How am I feeling?I swallow, and that hurts too. How could I possibly convey my regret? Apologize? Reassure her? I ponder that for too long, until Ava stands abruptly.
My knackered body responds without instruction, straightening, ready to stop her leaving. I can’t let her walk away from me again. God knows where I’ll end up next. “Where are you going?” I blurt, set to charge her down. Make her listen. Make her hear me. Just as soon as I find a way to explain myself.
“I thought you might need some water.”
Water? I need something, and it isn’t water. I need forgiveness. I need absolution. I needher. This distance between us, this hesitancy, isn’t boding well. Neither is the fact that at this moment in our relationship, for the first time, she is both the strongest mentallyandphysically. But make no mistake, I’ve always been at this woman’s mercy. Now more than ever. She left me, but she’s back. What does that mean?
Ava goes to the kitchen, and I watch her the entire way until she disappears. Even in another room, her absence is excruciating. I can’t fix this with my power over her. I can’t use what I’ve always depended on. Our chemistry. Our attraction. The explosions we create when we’re intimate. Things are too broken.You must give her words. But where the fuck will I find the right ones? And is she prepared to even listen?
In complete despair, I drop my heavy head into my hands, willing my brain to back me up and give me something.Anything.
