Falling in between, p.17
Falling in Between, page 17
Simon glances in the rearview mirror.
“I didn’t realize he wouldn’t be coming to pick me up,” I say softly. “I would’ve taken the train.”
The car maneuvers onto the street. “No worries, miss.”
I wring my hands in my lap. No matter how many times I squirm in the plush seat, my tense muscles won’t allow me to get comfortable. The drive seems to pass more quickly than usual, of course, that could be because I’m lost amongst my thoughts and worries.
The tires bump over the threshold of the Brooklyn Bridge, but instead of tensing, I stare out over the water, thinking about the way Elijah kissed me on this very bridge. The way he made me forget the fear pumping through me.
The car winds around the exit ramp. Simon stops at the crosswalk, allowing a group of laughing, smiling people to cross.
Elijah’s high-rise is still half a block away, but I find myself reaching for the door handle. I’m so jittery, I just need out. I need to burn off some of this energy before I see Elijah.
“Thank you, Simon,” I say, opening the door and setting my foot on the curb.
I’ve only taken a few steps when I hear Simon call my name. I glance at the car just as he leans down, looking through the open window.
“For what it’s worth, you’re the only woman I’ve ever seen him with.”
“I…” I open my mouth, then close it again. “Thank you.”
He nods, then drives off.
My heartbeat quickens with each step I take toward Elijah’s apartment. I round the sidewalk, and the automatic doors slide open, greeting me with the familiar scent of lavender and citrus.
I walk through the lobby in a fog. Unaware that I’ve set foot on the elevator until I’m nearing the seventh floor.
By the time I’m at Elijah’s door, my hands are shaking. I’ve never had to say goodbye when saying goodbye was the last thing I wanted to do. I knock, reassuring myself that I need a definitive end to avoid subconsciously lumping one of the best experiences of my life in among the worst.
The click of the lock causes my heart to jump into my throat. The door slowly opens to reveal Elijah in a pair of black gym shorts, no shirt. My gaze drifts over the deep V of his stomach and the tattoos on his chest. The muscles in his biceps and shoulder flex when he braces his arms on the doorway. When I finally reach his eyes, my heart tugs. There’s something soft and vulnerable in his expression, like he’s hurt.
“You left me this morning,” he says.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why did you leave?”
I drop my gaze to the floor, trying to find the words. “Can I come in?”
Elijah steps to the side, and before the door closes, his warm hands are on my cheeks, and he’s gently backing me toward the wall. “Look at me,” he says, lifting my face. “If this is about the party…” I watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. “I don’t need that lifestyle anymore. You satisfy that spot I was so desperately trying to fill.”
“Elijah.” I attempt to pull free from his hold, but he holds fast. “Don’t…”
“Since I’ve met you, all you’ve tried to do was run from me. Stop.”
My jaw tenses. I’m not the one leaving. He is. And I’m not running from him; I’m fleeing the broken heart I’m on a crash course with. I don’t know what he expects me to do. The longer I stare at him, the more unfair this all seems. Anger at the situation slowly eats away at me.
“Demi.” He inches closer to me. “Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what? You’re leaving in four days,” I say, tears threatening my eyes.
“And?”
“This was supposed to be casual and easy and fun, and now I’m…” I shake my head. “I’m in over my head with you.”
“I am, too.” His expression crumples, and his fingers sweep through my hair. “And I’ve never been in over my head in my life.”
“Then why keep doing this?”
A soft smile reaches his eyes. “Why wouldn’t we?” He goes to press a kiss to my lips, but I turn my face toward the wall. “Not everything’s black and white, Demi.”
“But this needs to be,” I whisper.
“Avoiding this won’t make it go away.”
My chest grows unbearably tight. “But continuing it will only make it worse.”
“If you knew you were going to die in a week, would you stop living?” His fingers trail along my jaw before he turns my face back toward his. “Or would you embrace the days you had left?”
I stare at him, searching his eyes for answers I know I’ll never get. “This was supposed to be safe, because it could go nowhere.”
“We’ve passed the point of it going nowhere. Come to London with me.”
My brow wrinkles. He can’t be serious.
“I know it’s fast,” he says. “But I’ve thought this through. I’m not a man who makes rash decisions.”
“Elijah I can’t. I have my job and my…my life.”
“I can give you whatever you want.” He takes my arms in his hands and inches his face toward mine. “Come with me.”
“We don’t even know each other, and—”
“I know enough to know I can’t lose you. You are every-fucking-thing I’ve ever wanted and not had.” His gaze grows stern. “I told you, you are my fantasy. Don’t take that away.”
I close my eyes, and his warm lips press over mine. I give into him, knowingly falling somewhere in-between heartache and ruin.
“If you won’t come,” he says against my lips, “I’ll stay.”
I grab his face, kissing him deep and hard. “This is reckless.”
He laughs against my lips. “It is, but if I can’t love you recklessly, I can’t love you at all. Let me love you, Demi.”
My heart pounds as Elijah scoops me into his arms and carries me up the stairs, his teeth nipping at my neck, my ear.
When he reaches the top step, he fists my hair, yanking my head back. “What are you afraid of?”
I take a breath. Then another.
He lays me on the bed, slowly unfastening my jeans. “Demi? What are you afraid of.”
My pants come off, followed by my shirt. “How this feels,” I whisper.
“That makes two of us,” he says. His hands roam over my body.
I work his shorts over his ass, and he lays between my open legs.
“But I’m willing to risk anything for the way it feels.” He sinks into me slowly, completely, his arms wound beneath mine and cupping the side of my face. “This feels so damn right,” he says, closing his eyes while he buries himself inside me.
And I focus on the way he touches me like I’m sacred, his kisses soft and brutal. Every inch of his skin bleeds into me. Every breath.
I always want to remember how, at one point, everything else in the world faded away until all that existed was us. Within a matter of seconds, he has me clinging to that edge. Panting and needing. I dig my nails into his back, pulling him closer as I tumble over the cliff, falling helplessly with nothing but him to cling to.
His head falls into the crook of my neck. “I love you,” he whispers.
Closing my eyes, I hesitate, because it’s hard enough to admit it to myself, much less the man who promised to be my ruin. But some words turn to poison if you hold them inside. “I love you too.”
And now I have no idea what I’m going to do.
24
I’m on my last client for the day, barely able to keep my mind focused on the session.
Meg’s here—without Ben, because he served her divorce papers, and I find myself wondering if relationships are even worth it.
Statistically speaking, Elijah and I are destined to end. And if we don’t, then I have to consider happens once the blissful passion fades away. I don’t want to end up like so many of my clients, in a stranger’s office, complaining that all the fire is gone. After Meg leaves, I take a seat behind my desk and stare blankly out my office window. Three days.
I have three days to figure out what I’m doing.
It’s five in the afternoon, and I don’t feel like shouldering my way through the crowded subways, so instead, I pull a notepad from my desk and scribble the title: “Pros and Cons” at the top.
I jot down the positives of going to London with Elijah. He makes me feel good. He makes me feel safe. I could wake up next to him. Great sex.
Under Cons, I jot. Leaving my entire life behind. Either of us realizing we were wrong. I’m too old to be reckless.
Shaking my head, I tear the paper from the pad, fold it, and tuck it in the side of my purse before I leave my office. I reach the subway platform and manage to cram into one of the packed trains just as the doors close. I’m sandwiched between a teenage boy whose Beats are blaring so loudly I can hear Snoop Dog singing about wiggling and a woman who’s shouting at her friend on the other side of the car. With each stop, the train becomes more jam-packed, and by the time I reach the 34th Street station, I can’t take it any longer. I hop off, determined to walk the rest of the way home.
Maybe that will help clear my mind.
I end up wandering past a French bakery and an art supply store, and randomly I stop in front of a tiny shop on the corner. Cupping my hands around my face, I peer through the window at the wooden boxes on display. A handwritten sign taped to the glass reads: Hand carved memory boxes.
The scent of cedar and pine waft onto the sidewalk when the shop door opens. An elderly man with an Argyle flat cap steps out and offers a toothy grin. “Would you like to come in and see what I’ve got?”
“Oh…” I move away from the window. “Sure.”
I follow him into the dim little workshop. Boxes of all shapes and sizes sit on old bookshelves. Pieces of driftwood are stacked against the wall behind the counter along with several old planks and oars. And propped in the corner, nearly hidden by a beat-up canoe sits a broken cello.
The man shuffles behind the register, smoothing a hand over his vest. “I can take anything wooden and carve you a pretty box. See anything you like?”
My gaze strays back to the cello. “May I?” I point at the instrument as I step around the counter.
“Be my guest.” He pats my back as I breeze past. “I found it in the alley behind my shop about six months ago. Looks like somebody just got fed up with it and took a sledgehammer to it. Solid wood.” He steps beside it and gives it a tap. “It sure would make a fine box. I could wind the strings around it, leaving just enough space where you could pluck them.”
Sometimes the universe shits on you. Sometimes it shines a bright light in the darkness. This could be a sign
“How long does it take to carve a box?” I ask.
He runs a hand over the smooth wood. “Two days.”
“And could you engrave a few stars along the sides?”
“Don’t see why not.”
Smiling, I follow him to the register and pay.
The things that make Elijah and I the most vulnerable carved together. Nothing could be more fitting—no matter how this plays out.
_____
Two days later, the polished memory box sits on my dresser. The scroll of the cello now serves as the knob to lift the lid. The strings wound around the sides create the most sullen of sounds when I run my fingers over them. Lonely and sad, like they know the beautiful noise they should make but no longer can. A smattering of tiny stars, almost reminiscent of the Milky Way, sweep along the front. It is uniquely beautiful. Perfectly us. And I have no idea what to do with it.
Steph is rummaging through the freezer when I step into the hallway. She comes away with two tubs of ice cream, tossing the chocolate at me before she grabs spoons from the drawer. “You look stressed,” she says.
With a grumble, I sink onto the couch. I haven’t told her yet. I haven’t told my best friend that I’m in love with a man who says he no longer needs to fulfill people’s fantasies, because he’s realized his fantasy is loving me. I haven’t told her he asked me to come to London with him. I haven’t told her a damn thing.
I’ve suffered these past few days in silence.
Elijah’s called me three times today. He’s also sent me several texts asking if I’ve made up my mind about London. But I haven’t answered him. I don’t know how to. In the heat of the moment, he said if I wouldn’t go with him, he’d stay, but I don’t believe that. And I wouldn’t let him even if he tried.
“You know,” Steph says. “I’m glad we have the kind of friendship where you don’t feel the need to wear pants around me.” She flops down on the sofa with her Ben and Jerry’s, nodding at my bare legs.
“Steph, the second you came in, you tossed your sneakers in the corner and stripped out of your bra.”
“I know. Clothes are stupid.”
I’d be leaving her and Dani…
She digs her spoon into the top layer of ice cream, scooping an insane amount into her mouth. Her eyes roll back in her head on a groan. “Oh, did I tell you I signed up for SAA.”
I frown. “Sex Addicts Anonymous?”
“Yep. I’m taking your advice and seeking help for my propensity for cock.”
I almost roll my eyes. “Steph, you aren’t a sex addict.”
“But,” she holds up her spoon. “I have the predisposition to become one. Why not head it off?”
With a facepalm, I shake my head.
“So,” she says. “You never told me how your date went the other night.”
I drag the spoon over my ice cream and a shaving of chocolatey goodness curls onto the tip. I debate whether to tell her the truth or not.
“It was fine.” I casually shrug a shoulder.
The eerie sci-fi ringtone wails from my phone.
“What the fuck is that?” Steph glances around, looking for the source of the noise.
“It’s Elijah’s ringtone.”
“It’s creepy as hell.”
I grab my cell from the table and turn it to silent, not bothering to check my text.
“Alright, what’s going on? Because you have bags under your eyes, and you’re ignoring him.”
“It’s just.” Sighing, I think about the party. About the things he said to me. About the life I have here in New York and how if I don’t go to London, I’ll probably just end up with another Harold… “Messed up. It’s really messed up.” I fight the tightening sensation in my throat.
“You went and caught feelings for the fuckface, huh?”
“I mean…” I draw a star over the top of my ice cream.
“Don’t lie. Things can’t be messed up or fucked up or even complicated if you don’t have feelings. Feelings screw everything up!”
I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to admit it to Steph. It seems so fast, so rash—so unlike me. “It’s only been a month, Steph.”
“Romeo and Juliet ended up falling in love, getting married, and dying all within a matter of weeks! Just like life, love has no timeline.”
“Steph.”
She shakes her spoon at me. “You can’t argue love with Shakespeare, and I don’t want to—”
“Elijah’s moving to London tomorrow!” As soon as I confess that I sink into the couch.
She blinks, and a little trail of chocolate dribbles down her chin. “When did you find this out?”
“On the first official date.”
“You know,” she huffs. “You forget to mention some pretty crucial details sometimes. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why would I?”
“Because, stuff like that guarantees you’re going to fall in love. That whole wanting what we can’t have crap. Why would you ever—” The lightbulb goes off, and her expression falls to a deep frown. “Oh! You thought it was safe because he was leaving.” She pats my knee like she’s consoling a small child, then she unexpectedly throws her arms around me. “That sucks, babe. It does.”
I think about losing Elijah. I think about leaving Steph and Dani. Something inside me snaps, and I fall apart, silently crying on Steph’s shoulder. When my breath catches, I feel Steph tense. She slowly pulls away to look at me, and I’m pretty sure if she hadn’t just gotten injections, there would be a huge crease in her forehead.
“Oh, Charlie,” she says, then hugs me again. This time so hard I can barely breathe.
I didn’t cry when the first guy I dated broke up with me. I didn’t cry when Harold cheated on me. I’ve never cried over a broken heart, and I guess maybe that’s because to have one you must truly be in love.
I quickly collect myself, wiping the tears from my face before I move away from her. “It’s fine,” I say. “I’m just angry at myself for getting involved, and I’m tired of thinking about it.” I grab the remote and turn on the TV, flipping right to season four of Dexter.
“So, this is how you’re going to handle it?” she says, glancing toward the screen. “Watch a sexy, vigilante serial killer while you down a pint of ice cream?”
“Yep.” I fall back against the cushion and rest my bare feet on the coffee table.
“Seems about right.”
We get halfway through the first episode and nearly all the way through our tubs of ice cream before the doorbell rings.
“Pizza!” Steph sets her ice cream on the coffee table, clapping her hands as she jumps up and rushes to the door.
I pause Dexter.
Ding-dong. Knock. Knock. Knock.
Steph looks over her shoulder. “He’s an impatient little pizza guy, isn’t he?”
I’m staring at that blank, psychotic stare Michael Hall has down to an art when the hinges to the door creak.
“Um,” Steph says. “You’re not the pizza guy.”
I glance away from the TV, and she takes a step back. My heart clenches. Elijah’s large frame fills the doorway. Even from across the room his hazel eyes manage to pin me to the spot, and I swallow.
“How old are you?” he says, annoyance lacing his tone. He ignores Steph and crosses the threshold, his posture stiff. His jaw set. “I’ve called you three times!”
“So…” Steph points toward the hall. “I’m just going to go in your room and… Yeah…” She nods, then quickly disappears into the hallway. Seconds later, the bedroom door bangs closed.
