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She nods. "I know what you mean."
"When have you ever been a fuckup?"
"Plenty of times." She looks up at me. "I just don't do it as publicly as you."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
She shakes her head. "No. Do you?"
"Yeah. But I'm happy to not talk too."
Chapter Thirty-One
Cassie
I'm happy to not talk too.
I want that. I want to let go of everything in my head and melt into him. I want to be here, connecting with my heart and my body.
But there's only one way I know how to do that.
With my head. By talking first, sharing first, fitting together here first.
"Would you rather talk?" I ask.
"Than fuck you?" He chuckles. "I like talking to you, Cass, but don't be stupid. It doesn't suit you." The playfulness in his voice pushes the clouds in the room away. These are big topics, but they don't have to feel heavy. They don't have to feel like secrets.
They can feel… okay. I'm not my depression or my prescription or its side effects. He's not his alcoholism.
We're two people with problems we share with each other.
Can it really be that easy?
It was once with Frederick. For a long time. Then it stopped. That's what I don't understand. When did things change? Why didn't I notice him turn into someone else?
If I didn't notice with him, I won't notice with someone else.
Or maybe it's different with Damon. Frederick and I didn't talk like this. Not in the beginning. Not even in the middle.
We shared, yes. He was there when I needed him, and I tried to be there when he needed me. But I was always holding something back, trying to preserve his opinion of me.
That's why it's easier with Damon. Because he's known me for ages. Because he's seen my weaknesses. Because now, I know better. I know I can't swallow my fears and needs and feel okay with it.
It's hard, but I have to trust him with my feelings. I have to work at it.
Love isn't the fluffy confection it is in a pop song.
Sometimes, it's easy and fun and free. And sometimes, it's hard work and sacrifice and facing everything you'd rather bury.
"Are you okay, Cass?" He squeezes my hand. "You're off somewhere."
"Can we write the song first?"
He chuckles. "Is that really what you want to do right now?"
Yes and no. "I don't know how else to explain what I'm feeling. Okay. How about this. You sit there and look cute. I need five minutes with my notebook."
"How about I go to the bathroom and get fresh, and when I come back I—"
"Sit and listen to my new song."
"And then throw you on the bed," he says.
"As long as you listen to the song first," I say.
His lips curl into a wicked smile. The Damon Webb signature. "I wouldn't miss it for anything." He kisses me softly, pushes himself to his feet, lets himself out of the room.
A million things fill my head. My desire to connect with him. My fear of losing that intimacy. To a miscommunication. Or a rift. Or something much worse and more permanent.
No wonder Daphne is on pins and needles all the time.
I don't want to put more on him, to be another person who looks at him like he might break. I know how that feels too. Not to the extent he does, but I remember the way my parents reacted when I told them I wanted to see a therapist to address my depression.
They said great idea, what a healthy choice with their mouths and what the fuck, how have we failed our daughter with their eyes.
They don't crowd me the way they once did, but they don't give me space either. Not enough.
Damn. Too many thoughts, too little time.
I close my eyes. I let Carly Simon serenade me for a moment, then I sit at the desk with my pen and my notebook, and I pour my thoughts onto the page.
They're strange scraps at first.
They come together, bit by bit.
A verse and a chorus.
All dressed up and nowhere to go
Someone to kiss, somewhere to woah-
Anything but that
Anything, as long as you don't know
Wit is so last season
After I go over the verse one more time, I look up, find Damon in the doorframe, his blue eyes glued to me. "Don't stop on my account."
"Why does that sound sexual?"
"I told you, Cass. There's nothing sexier than your passion for music."
My stomach flutters. My sex pangs. There's something about the mix of sharing and teasing. It's really hot. "Promise not to laugh."
He doesn't sass me. He just nods. "I promise."
I pause the music—sorry, Carly, but this isn't the right backing—and I start.
I keep my eyes on my notebook as I sing the words. I don't know why, but it's always easier to sing them than it is to say them.
