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Like fuck do I even have any. I’m an amateur playing in the big leagues.
I’m the little league bat girl to his masochistic pro-baller.
I don’t even know if I’m mad at him or if I’m just happy he’s there. Happy he’s not dead. Happy he’s on the other side of that window. Happy he’s here; maybe trying to prove himself.
The thunder rumbles again, and then there it is—the first big splats of rain. I stare at them, hitting the bedroom window, and can’t resist climbing off the bed to open the window a fraction as quietly as I can so I can smell the gorgeous petrichor scent as the rain hits the parched earth.
Leaning on the windowsill, I pause and then crane my neck to see if Ciarán is actually still there or has left.
Not seeing him at first, I push the window further open and lean out. He is sitting there next to the flowerpot, smoking. When a large drop of rain splats on the cigarette, he curses softly and stubs it out in the pot. Disappearing back into my room, I pace. The rain has started to really come down now, and he is getting soaked.
Am I really so mean as to let him sit there?
After what he did, I should be wishing he’d be struck by lightning, but I was wrong before. Idoknow him. I know his soul. I know he is hurting and covers it up with aggression as his defense mechanism.
Moments pass, the storm growing wilder outside. As wild as my ragged emotions.
I take another peek out the window.
He’s sitting there now in the lashing down rain, his back to the window, a hand on the sill as he stares out into the darkened sky.
Unsure of what to do, I drop my gaze and look into my room. I really don’t know what to do.
And then he tugs at my heartstrings when it becomes abundantly clear what I must do.
I have to do this for him. He’s relying on me to help him change, whether he knows it or not. He wouldn’t be sitting out there wet through if he didn’t mean it.
Turning away from the window, I listen to the storm raging outside. Any sense of rationality left in me flees, and I let myself be taken over with emotion.
Ciarán has been sitting out there for hours.
Slowly taking the stairs, I open the front door and find him still there – slumped against the wall, his head hanging low. He looks up at me with bloodshot eyes, desperation ravaging him.
“I’m not sober,” he whispers hoarsely.
“Come in,” I say, stepping aside.
He shakes his head. “I’ll wait.”
“You’ll catch your death out here.”
“Maybe that’s okay.”
Anger fires through me. “Don’t be a fucking prick. Get in here now or walk away. Your choice.”
Ciarán nods, pushing himself up the wall and stumbling in front of me. Turning, I lead him to the living room, watching as he collapses onto my sofa with a heavy thud. His body seems to fold in on itself, the weight of his world pressing down on him.
“You’re soaking my sofa,” I mutter, but it’s a waste of breath.
Within seconds, he’s snoring loudly, drooling onto my cushions like a child who’s cried himself to sleep. The sight of him, so vulnerable and broken, once again tugs at my heartstrings.
“Damn you,” I whisper, watching him sleep. “Why did you have to look so fucking cute?”
His vulnerability is both endearing and infuriating. As I stand there, watching him sleep, I want to reach out and touch him. To touch him, hold him, make him feel safe. To be there for him.
It’s a dizzying thing, this feeling that’s bubbling inside of me. I feel feverish, on fire. I feel like I need to shake him, to yell at him, to kiss him, to hold him, to love him. To be loved back by him. To be wanted by him.
I am all at war with myself, at war with my emotions, at war with what I should say, do, be. With what he has done to me, I can’t stop thinking about what happened between us. I can’t stop feeling the way he makes me feel. Or can I?
