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And that’s the same thing as if I’d forgotten what it feels like to breathe clean, fresh air. I’ve been underwater too long and I’m dying for a gulp of air. Without my consent, my hand lifts itself to the top of her hair. My fingers part the wet hair that’s sticking to her forehead and she sucks in a breath. Doesn’t move an inch.
I trail my fingers down her cheekbone to her jaw. There is still water clinging to her collarbones, to the hollow of her neck. I wet my thumb in it and lift it to her lips. She nearly falls apart in my hands. I feel her wobble against me and I brace one hand on the wall, trailing the other to the back of her neck.
I wrap my fingers around her head. I remember how well the nape of her neck fit against the base of my palm, little hairs always escaping her braid, tickling my skin. It’s exactly the same. I close my eyes and I can smell the woods all around us, the smoke from the burning of leaves, the air thick with the promise of snow.
I open them again and she is here, warm and pulsing, her body pressed against mine, hip to shoulder, her lips brushing my lips, my head bent low over hers, her chest rising and falling rapidly, waiting, holding her breath…
I lower my head.
Don’t kiss her. Don’t kiss her don’t kiss her don’t kiss her.
My lips are a breath from hers. My lower lip is touching hers. My…
I step away.
She stumbles and almost falls, and I make a fist so hard my fingers dig into my palm. I draw blood so that I won’t reach out to help her.
Don’t kiss her don’t kiss her don’t kiss her.
I lean my back against the wall, panting as if I’ve run a marathon.
That’s it.
I’m done. I’m calling Spence in the morning to take her away from here. We’re supposed to start rehearsals for the concert tomorrow, and this? This is more than I can take.
“That sounds like the title for your new song,” Eden says, her voice a bit unsteady. My had snaps up. What on earth is she talking about? She smiles. “Enough love? That’s the song. The one you’re going to write. Tonight, judging by the looks of you.”
…
She’s right.
I hate it, but she’s right.
I take the stairs three at a time as I climb down to my cabin and take a freezing-cold shower. It doesn’t work. I take another one. Then I sit down and write and write before taking another. The music just comes to me, the lyrics flow. My body is pulsing with heat no matter how much ice-cold water I pour on it, and, even like this, burning and freezing at the same time, I write the songEnough Lovewithin less than two hours.
I sit on the floor and play it on my violin first, then on the guitar. I record myself, layering the instruments. I record my voice. I do a quick, super-unprofessional mix, but at least I have a track with the full song. By the time that’s done, the sun is spilling golden inside my cabin’s window.
And it’s become incredibly clear to me that I am well and truly screwed.
I won’t call Spencer.
I won’t fire Eden.
But I don’t want to see or talk to her after I made a fool of myself yesterday and laid open my heart for her to see. And she rejected it.
So yeah, I’m screwed.
Oh wait, I might need to write a song about that as well.
After all, I can do that now. My eyes drift closed, much-needed sleep finally claiming me. My last thought before I go under is:
At least I didn’t kiss her. At least I didn’t lose.
The Elliot sisters chat room
Eden: So a thing happened.
Eden: And I can’t keep this from you guys any longer. I need help.
