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wake-up calls
Now
I’m keepingmy eyes screwed tightly shut. If I don’t open them, then I don’t have to let go of this moment—of this night—that’s taken me through a transformation like none I’ve ever known.
“I know you’re awake.” Lips kiss along my hair while strong fingers smooth the length of the strands.
“I’m not awake. I’m still sleeping, and you can’t wake me up.” I grin lazily, still refusing to open my eyes. My arms are wrapped tight around Freddy and my head is resting on his chest.
His fingers lower and trail down my spine, lower and lower until I can’t be anything other than awake. Opening my eyes, I lift my head and look intently at Freddy. Sunlight floods the room, bringing with it an autumn chill that lurks in the corners of the room, and along with it, a harsh reality. Can we make this work?
“Is this real?” I ask.
“Which bit?”
“The bit where I came home, found you still here and somehow we becamethisagain.”
"Oh, that.” He leans in and kisses me on the tip of my nose. “That is all very real.”
“Freddy?” I lean my elbow onto his chest so I can get his full attention.
“Yes?”
“Nothing’s going to stand in our way this time, is it?”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I hope not, Amber French.” A flash of chagrin chases across his features. “Shit, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting.” He looks rueful at the familiar use of my maiden name.
“It’s okay, would you like me to be Amber French again?”
He laughs and falls back on the pillows. “Well, I’d kinda like you not to be married to someone else. That’s a bit of a pain.”
“It’s not real.” How I wish none of it was real.
“I know, you’ve told me.”
During the night while the dark shrouded us in its safe depths, I told him many of my secrets, my deepest thoughts, and some of my darkest dreams; the dreams that make me know that where we are right now isn’t wrong.
“This is real.” I shimmy my way up his chest, entwining my legs with his as I kiss his mouth. “This is real,” I repeat.
I’m just setting in for more Freddy Perfection when the doorbell rings. With a loud groan, I reach for my phone to check the time. “It’s only nine. Isaac can’t be back yet.”
“Guess I shouldn’t be here when Isaac comes home?”
I look at him, a heavy pulling sensation tugging on my heart. “Probably not. For now.”
With a peck of a kiss, he rolls away and stretches off the bed. The visitor waiting at the door is momentarily forgotten as I gaze in wide-eyed wonder at the masterpiece that is Freddy Bale, as he bares all in front of me. A sudden flash of a memory blindsides me and for a moment all I can see is the singed, blackened skin he was left with after the accident. I recall all too well the way it made me unable to draw breath the first time I saw it. As quickly as the memory arrives, it evaporates, and I’m left just staring at his pale-skinned perfection. Running a hand along his bare creamy flesh, I look for scars in the cold light of day, but just as the doctor at the time predicted, the skin trauma is nothing more than a distant memory, no lasting signs for the eye to see.
Planting a kiss on his shoulder, I tiptoe so I can place my lips against his ear. Swiftly, his arms link and clasp around me tight.
“I’ll go let him in. You wait here until I’ve got him distracted,” I suggest.
Releasing his grasp, he grabs his jeans off the floor, and I watch avidly as he slides them up.
As quickly as possible, I struggle into my own discarded clothes and then pace down the stairs, dragging my fingers through my tangled bed hair. “Hi,” I greet, opening the door. Any further words die in my throat when I see Elliot on the other side of the door.
“Hi.” He smiles at me, his expression assured.
“What are you doing here, Elliot?” I can’t keep my surprise out of my tone.
