by K. Bromberg
“I’d tell you to go with the latter.” He smirks. “Only a dead man would be able to ignore your penchant for sexy underthings.”
I smile brazenly at him as I hold up a matching thong that is made of lace and very little of it at that. “You mean like this?”
His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. “Yeah, like that,” he murmurs, his eyes tracking my movements as I step into the panties. I make sure to give him a little floor show as I bend over to pull it up over my wiggling hips. “Sweet Christ, woman, you’re killing me!”
I laugh out loud at him as I grab my T-shirt and tug it over my head. “Can’t fault a girl for having a soft spot for sexy underthings as you put it.”
“No ma’am.” He smirks at me as he moves the razor up and clears a clean path of shaving cream under his chin—such a masculine act and so sexy to witness. I lean against the door and watch him with thoughts of tomorrows and the future running through my mind.
I thought I knew what love felt like, but standing here, breathing him in, I realize I had no clue. Loving Max was sweet, gentle, naive, and what I thought a relationship should be. Like what a child sees when they look at their parents through rose-colored glasses. Comfortable. Innocent. Loving. I loved Max with all my heart—always will in some capacity—but looking back at it in comparison to what I feel for Colton, I know that I would have been selling myself short. Settling.
Loving Colton is so different. It’s just so much more. When I look at him, my chest physically constricts from the emotions that pour through me. They’re intense and raw. Overwhelming and instinctual. The chemistry between us is combustive and passionate and volatile. He consumes my every thought. He is a part of everything I feel. His every action is my reaction.
Colton is my air in each breath. My endless tomorrow. My happily ever after.
I watch the line form between his eyebrows as he concentrates, angling his face this way and that. He’s just about finished, little smudges of shaving cream left on his face here and there when he notices me.
As he wipes his face on a towel, I walk up slowly behind him and to the left, his eyes on mine the whole time. I reach out and run a hand softly up and down the line of his spine, stopping at the nape of his neck so I can run my fingers through his damp hair. He leans his head back at the sensation and closes his eyes momentarily. I want so badly to nuzzle up against his broad back and powerful shoulders and feel my body pressed against his. I hate that the horror from his past robs me—and him—of the chance to snuggle up against him in bed or being able to walk up to him and wrap my arms around him, nuzzling into him from behind—another simple way to connect with him.
I lean up on my toes and press a soft kiss to his bare shoulder while my fingernails trail up and down the line of his spine. I can feel his muscles bunch and move as my touch tickles his skin, and my lips form a smile against the firmness of his shoulder.
“You’re tickling me,” he says with a laugh as he squirms beneath my touch.
“Mmm-hmm,” I murmur, my cheek now pressed against his shoulder so I can meet his eyes in the mirror, and watch his face tense as I tease my fingernails up the side of his torso. I can’t help the smile that forms on my lips as his face scrunches up to try and prepare for the graze of my fingers over his ribcage—a little boy’s expression on the face of a grown man. I find my purchase and make sure to be extra thorough in my tickling.
“Stop it, you evil wench.” He struggles trying to remain stoic, but when my fingers continue their relentless torture, he wriggles his body away from me.
“I’m not letting you get away.” I laugh with him as I wrap my arms around him and try to prevent him from escaping.
He’s laughing, the razor thrown and forgotten into the sink, his towel dangerously close to falling from his hips, and my arms wrapped around him from behind. Unintentionally, I’ve maneuvered him into the one position I‘d just been thinking about. I know he realizes it the moment that I do because I feel his body tense momentarily and his laughter fades off before he tries to cover it up. Colton’s eyes glance up to the reflection of the mirror to meet mine. The look I’ve seen in any one of my boys’ flickers through them, and it breaks me apart inside, but as quick as it flashes there, it’s gone.
Regardless of the length of time, I know how much that small concession is a huge step between the two of us.
Before I know it, Colton’s twisted out of my grip and is assaulting my rib cage with the tips of his fingers.
“No!” I cry, trying to escape him but unable to. The only way I can think to get him to stop is to wrap my arms around his torso and press my chest to his as hard as I can. I’m breathless and know that I’m no match for his strength.
“Are you trying to distract me?” he teases as his fingers ease up and slide up the back of my shirt to the bare flesh beneath. The protest on my lips fades as I sigh into him and welcome the warmth of his touch and the arms that he tightens around me. I find comfort here, a peace I never thought I’d know again.
We stand here like this for some time—the length I don’t know. It’s long enough, though, that his heartbeat beneath my ear has slowed significantly. At some point I press my lips into his neck and simply absorb everything about him.
I’m so overwhelmed with everything. I know that he’s just shared something monumental with me—bestowed a depth of trust to me—and maybe subconsciously I want to give him a piece of me in return. I speak before my head can filter what my heart says. And by the time I do, it’s too late to take it back.
“I love you, Colton.” My voice is even and unfaltering when the words come out. There is no mistaking what I’ve said. Colton’s body stiffens as the words suffocate and die in the air around us. We stand there in silence, still physically entwined for several more moments before Colton unlaces his fingers from mine and deliberately removes my hands off of him. I stand still as he steps to the edge of the counter to grab his shirt and shove it over his head, an exhaled “Fuck!” coming from between his lips.
I follow him in the mirror and the panic in his eyes, on his face, reflected in his movements are hard to watch, but I’m silently pleading with him to look into my eyes. To see that nothing has changed. But he doesn’t. Instead, he briskly walks past me into my bedroom without looking at me.
I watch him drag on yesterday’s jeans before sitting on the bed and shoving his feet in his boots. “I’ve got to get to work,” he says as if I hadn’t spoken.
The tears that threaten fill my eyes and blur my vision as he rises from the bed. I can’t let him go without saying something. My heart is hammering in my ears, the sting of his rejection twisting my insides as he grabs his keys off the dresser and shoves them into his pocket.
“Colton,” I whisper as he starts to walk past me to the doorway. He stops at the sound of my voice. His eyes remain focused on his watch as he fastens it on his wrist, his damp hair falling onto his forehead. We stand there in silence—me looking He stops at the sound of my voice. at him, him looking at his watch—the chasm between us growing wider by the second. The silence so loud it’s deafening. “Please say something,” I plead softly.
“Look, I—” He stops, sighing heavily and dropping his hands down but not meeting my eyes. “I told you, Rylee, that’s just not a possibility.” His rasp is barely audible. “I’m not capable of, not deserving...” he clears his throat “...I’ve got nothing but black inside of me. The ability to love—to accept love—is nothing but poison.”
And with that Colton walks out of my bedroom and what I fear most possibly out of my life.
I can’t breathe. Fuck. My chest hurts. My eyes blur. My body shakes. The panic attack hits me full force as I grip the steering wheel, knuckles turning white and heart pounding like a motherfucking freight train in my ears. I try to close my eyes—try to calm myself—but all I see is her face inside the house in front of me. All I hear are those poisonous words falling from her mouth.
My chest constricts again as
I force myself to pull out of her driveway and make myself concentrate on the road. To not think. To not let the darkness inside take over or allow the memories to seep through.
I do the only thing that I can do—I drive—but it’s not fast enough. Only on the track is it ever fast enough to push myself into that blur around me—get lost in it—so that none of this can catch me.
I pull into the dive bar: blacked out windows, no sign above the door with it’s name, and a myriad of overflowing ashtrays on the window ledges. I don’t even know where the fuck I am. I park my ride next to some piece of shit clunker and don’t even think twice about it. All I can think about is how to numb myself, how to erase what Rylee just said.
The bar is dark inside when I open the door. Nobody turns to look at me. They all keep their heads down, crying into their own fucking beers. Good. I don’t want to talk. Don’t want to listen. Don’t want to hear Passenger on the speakers above singing about letting her go. I just want to drown everything out. The bartender looks up, his sallow eyes sizing up my expensive clothes and registering the desperation on my face.
“What’ll you have?”
“Patron. Six shots. Keep ‘em coming.” I don’t even recognize my voice. Don’t even feel my feet move toward the bathroom in the far corner. I walk in and up to the grungy sink and splash some water on my face. Nothing. I feel absolutely nothing. I look up at the cracked mirror and don’t even recognize the man in front of me. All I see is darkness and a little boy I no longer want to remember anymore, don’t want to be anymore.
Humpty fuckin’ Dumpty.
Before I can stop myself, the mirror is shattering. A hundred tiny fucking pieces splinter and fall. I don’t register the pain. I don’t feel the blood trickling out and dripping from my hand. All I hear is the tinkling as it hits the tiles all around me. Little sounds of music that momentarily drown out the emptying of my soul. Beautiful on the surface but so very broken as a whole. Irreparable.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put Humpty back together again.
The bartender eyes my wrapped hand as I walk up to the bar. I see my shots lined up by some fellow patrons, and I walk to the other vacant end of the bar and sit down. My stomach churns at the thought of sitting between the two men there. The barkeep picks up and delivers my shots to me and just stares as I place two one hundred dollar bills on the bar top. “One hundred for the mirror,” I say, lifting my chin toward the bathroom, “and one hundred to keep them coming, no questions asked.” I raise my eyebrows at him, and he just nods in agreement.
The bills slip off the counter into his pocket before my second shot is being tossed back. I welcome the sting. The imaginary slap to my face for how I just left Rylee. For what I’m going to do to Rylee. The third one’s gone and my head still hurts. Pressure’s still in my chest.
You know that you’re only ever allowed to love me, Colty. Only me. And I’m the only one who’ll ever really love you. I know the things you let them do to you. The things you enjoy them doing to you. I can hear you in there with them. I hear you chanting ‘I love you’ over and over the whole time. I know you’re convinced you let them because you love me, but you really do it because you like how it feels. You’re a naughty, naughty boy, Colton. So very bad that no one will ever be able to love you. Will never want to. Never. And if they did and found out all of the naughty things you’ve done? They’d know the truth—that you’re horrible and disgusting and poisoned inside. That any love you have inside of you for anyone but me is like a toxin that will kill them. So you can’t tell anyone because if you do, they’ll know how repulsive you are. They’ll know the Devil lives inside of you. I know. I’ll always know and I’ll still love you. I’m the only one that is ever allowed to love you. I love you, Colty.
I try to push the memories from my mind. Push them back into the abyss that they’re always hiding in. Rylee can’t love me. No one can love me. My head fucks with me as I glance down the bar. The man sitting with his back to me causes sickness to grapple though me. Greasy dark hair. A paunchy gut. I know if he turns around what he’ll look like. What he’ll smell like. What he’ll taste like.
I toss back the seventh shot, trying to force the bile down. Trying to numb the fucking pain—pain that won’t go the fuck away even though I know in my right head that it’s not him. Can’t be. It’s just my mind fucking with me because the alcohol hasn’t numbed enough yet.
I push my forehead in my hands. It’s Rylee’s voice clear as day that I hear in my head—but it’s his face that I see when I hear those three words.
Not Rylee’s.
Just his.
And my Mom’s. Her lips and that ragged smile giving me her constant affirmation of the freakish horror inside of me.
The blackness has already poisoned me. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let it kill Rylee too. Number ten goes down and my lips are starting to not work.
A catastrophic exit. The perfect fucking meaning to Ace. I start laughing. It hurts so fucking much that I can’t stop. I’m barely holding it together. And I’m afraid that if I do stop, I’m going to fracture just like the goddamn mirror.
Humpty fuckin’ Dumpty.
“This is the way you want it to be. Guess you don’t want me,” I sing solemnly with my old standby, Matchbox Twenty, as I drive home after my shift the next day. I still haven’t heard from Colton, but then again I hadn’t expected to.
I pull into my driveway, the past twenty-four hours a blur. I should have called in sick to work as it wasn’t fair to the boys to have a guardian around who’s so wrapped up in their own head they weren’t really present.
I’ve relived the moment so many times that I can’t think about it anymore. I didn’t expect Colton to confess his undying love for me in return, but I also didn’t think he’d act as if the words were never spoken. I’m hurt and feeling the sting of rejection and am uncertain where to go from here. I took an important moment between us and fucked it up. What to do now? I’m not sure.
I trudge in the house, drop my bag rather unceremoniously on the floor by the front door, and collapse on the couch. And that is where Haddie finds me hours later when she walks through the door.
“What’d he do to you, Rylee?” Her demand rouses me from sleep. Her hands are on her hips as she stands over me, and her eyes search mine for an answer.
“Oh, Haddie, I screwed up royally,” I sigh as I let the tears that I’d been holding back flow. She sits down on the coffee table in front of me, hand on my knee in support, and I relay everything to her.
When I finish she just shakes her head and looks at me with eyes full of compassion and empathy. “Well, sweetie, if anything’s screwy, it’s definitely not you!” she says. “All I can say is that you need to give him a little time. You probably scared the shit out of Mr. Free-Wheelin’-Bachelor to death. Love. Commitment. All that shit...” she waves her hand through the air “...is a big step for someone like him.”
“I know.” I hiccup through my tears. “I just didn’t expect him to be so cold…so nonchalant about it. I think that’s what hurts the most.”
“Oh, Ry.” She leans in and hugs me tightly. “I’ll call in sick to the event tonight so you’re not alone.”
“No don’t,” I tell her. “I’m fine. I’ll probably just eat a gallon of ice cream and go to sleep anyway. Go...” I shoo her away with my hands “...I’ll be fine. I promise.”
She just stares at me for a moment, debating whether I’m lying or not. “Okay,” she says, taking a deep breath, “but just remember something…you’re awesome, Rylee. If he doesn’t see that...if he doesn’t see everything you have to offer in and out of the sack...then fuck him and the horse he rode in on.”
I give her a slight smile. Leave it to Haddie to put it eloquently.
The next morning passes without hearing from him. I decide to text him.
Hi, Ace. Call me when you have a chance. We need to talk. XO.
My phone remain
s silent for most of the day despite how many times I’ve looked at it and checked to see if I have good service. As the day drags on, my unease settles in, and I start to realize that I’ve probably done irrevocable damage.
Finally at three o’clock I receive a response. My hopes soar at the prospect of having contact with him.
Busy all day in meetings. Catch you later.
And then my hopes take a nosedive.
On the third day post the I-love-you disastrous confession, I get up the nerve to call his office on my way in to the office. “CD Enterprises, can I help you?”
“Colton Donavan please,” I answer, my knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel.
“May I ask who’s calling please?”
“Rylee Thomas.” My voice cracks.
“Hi, Ms. Thomas, let me check. Just a moment please.”
“Thanks,” I whisper, anxiety eating at me as I hope he answers and then at what to say if he does.
“Ms. Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry. Colton’s not in today. He’s out sick. Can I take a message? Can Tawny help you with anything?”
My heart moves up into my throat at the words. If he is in fact sick, she wouldn’t have had to check. She would’ve known.
“No. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
The past few days have started to take their toll on me. I look a mess, so much so that even make-up isn’t helping. On day four I feel like I would give anything to take my words back. To take us back to the moments before where we were connected in the moment of his unyielding trust in me. But I can’t.
Instead, I sit at my desk and stare aimlessly at the pile of work on my desk without any desire to do anything. I look up at the knock on my open door to see Teddy. “You okay, kiddo? You don’t look so good.”
