by Tempest Phan
Nothing in the world felt as natural as this, being in his arms, breathing him in. Two pieces of a puzzle locked into each other.
Belonging.
We stayed like this for a long time, he wordlessly soothing my tears while I rested against his heart, trying to wrap myself around it once more.
He looked down at me again. He frowned and touched me gently, ever so gently, the gentleness and care so at odds with his angry moves and words earlier, so at odds with what we’d just done. Tenderly, he trailed his fingers down my neck, arms, breasts. And when he growled, the sound broke out like crushed velvet. “I hurt you again. I only ever hurt you.” He was tracing the love marks he’d left on me.
I shook my head. No. The pain he’d inflicted was on my heart. Only my heart.
My turn to raise myself up so that I looked down at his face.
“I didn’t mean to be such an animal. I’m so sorry.” He reached up to cradle my cheek in his great big hand.
“No, baby. I could have stopped you. And I know you would have,” I said with certainty in my heart, even as he shut his eyes, his hand still on my face. I shook my head again, not wanting him to spiral down into his vicious cycle of self-flagellation for something I’d wanted as much as he had.
The movement made my hair spill over his hand. He reopened his eyes and reached up to run his fingers through my hair.
“Blonde,” he whispered, seemingly out of nowhere.
“Do you like?”
He smirked. “Wouldn’t matter if I didn’t, would it?”
My heart sank. “That’s right. You only go for brunettes.”
He whispered, “With you, I’d go for anything. And anyways, you could shave your head and still be the most beautiful woman in any room.”
I let out a breath, not realizing I’d been holding it. Why, why, why?
And so I changed the subject. “My song, Damien. You were listening after all, all those years ago. You didn’t forget.”
He shifted and held me closer. “When it comes to you, I notice everything. I remember it all. Every single thing, big and small. And that melody . . . you saved me that day. I was drowning, and you came and filled my dark. How could I forget the song—the girl—that pulled me out of my despair?”
At his words, my heart tumbled in my chest, crashed, exploded, disintegrating into a hot mess inside of me. I wanted to pull him back against me. Wanted to melt inside of him; wanted him to melt inside of me. But instead, I only traced the tattooed teardrop, trailing my finger down his cheek to his neck, now completely filled with black and grey cherry blossoms. I returned to that teardrop, lingering on it, following it down to the scar running across his cheek, its edges softened and whitened by time.
“You, too, saved me,” I murmured, consumed by the bittersweet memories.
He clenched his eyes and fist. The muscle in his left jaw ticked dangerously.
When he opened his eyes again, their blue depths were a storm-tossed sea. “I would have killed him. If you hadn’t stopped me, I would have killed him. And he would have deserved it.” His words were made darker, more sinister by being whispered in his voice of shadows.
I leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth. Then I leaned down to kiss his scar, following it up to kiss his teardrop tattoo.
“You saved me then. Let me save you now,” I whispered. “I don’t like to think of you crying,” I continued, tears clouding my own vision, my heart so full for this man who was destined to continue breaking it.
He smiled his crooked smile at me. But he said nothing, just looked at me with eyes dark and drowning. Finally, he gently ran his fingers along my cheek and leaned in. I held my breath, awaiting his lips on mine, knowing how his touch would be another onslaught on my heart. But he didn’t touch my lips. Ever so tenderly, he kissed my forehead.
“Boys don’t cry, and this man does not need to be saved,” he said softly and pulled me in closer.
Another piece of my heart broke, knowing he meant it, knowing he’d never let me in. I’d been knocking for years.
He murmured, “During my darkest nights—and they are all dark—I dream of you against me, just like this. I turn back to that first time, when you gave yourself to me. I loved you so much then.”
“Loved?” I tried to hide my stinging tears and buried my face against his chest. I had no right to demand that he still love me. He wasn’t mine. My heart ached at the exquisite tragedy of it all.
He breathed out. “What do you want me to say?” His voice was shaky. He pulled away from me, sitting up to grab the bottle of Laphroaig on one of the nightstands. I watched, horrified as he took a long swig, then another, and another. He ran his hand across his mouth. “You want me to say that I love you? That I imagine fucking you every single damn day until you scream out and never let me go? That I replay over and over the morning I left you, but that the ending is different? That the thought of other men touching you makes me homicidal?” He smacked the bottle down and laid back next to me, running his hands over his face. “No, sweetheart. That’s not just love. It’s a sickness, a burning need. An obsession. And I swore to myself that I’d never drag you down into this hell with me.”
More silent tears skated down my face. He would never let it work. We’d always be doomed. Why did I think the years might have changed that?
He shifted slightly. I looked up. He was staring at me intently, his eyes as broken as my heart.
“Baby girl, please don’t cry. I can’t be the one to make you cry. I’m always the one to make you cry,” he whispered, his voice shattered darkness, swooping down over my bleeding heart.
Finally, I shook my head. “You don’t get it. I’ll never be able to make you understand. Do you know that whenever anyone has ever touched me, that I pretend it is you? I close my eyes and pretend it isn’t his lips on me, but yours. I pretend, but my heart continues breaking. I love you, Damien. I’ve loved you since I was seventeen. No, I’ve always loved you. And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know why I keep hoping against hope that you’ll change your mind.” I shook my head, feeling the tears scatter. “And look at you now. I give up. I’ll be gone in the morning. But until then, please make love to me again tonight. Please. Tonight, I want to feel you inside of me. I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine. Make me yours, Damien. Let’s pretend just for tonight.”
With gentle fingers, he wiped away my tears and bent down to kiss every last trace of them away. He leaned down and kissed me, his lips soft and gentle. Our kiss tasted of storms and heartache. It would always be so.
He pulled away slightly so he could better look at my face. His eyes were ghostly and fraught with pain, but, once again, I saw love in their depths.
“My heart,” he whispered. “I call them all ‘Bella,’ but they are never you. They could never be you.” And he bent down to capture my lips again. He kissed me long and hard, until I was breathless, until I once again lost myself in him and had to pull back.
I pushed him down so he was on his back. I straddled him. My eyes never leaving his, I caressed him and started kissing his broad chest, slowly moving down the length of his beloved body until I reached his cock. I felt him shiver beneath me, and heard the deep moan when I kissed him, slowly licking down his length, before taking him in my mouth. I loved the taste of him, the silken feel, his moans, as I sucked him.
“I can’t, baby girl. I can’t,” he gasped, as I felt him tremble in my mouth, dark words he’d already whispered once to me, so long ago.
Suddenly, he dragged me up, flipped me over so that he was once again above me. He reached over to glove up. He moved over me, and when he entered me, it was with a soft slowness that made me moan deep inside my throat. Where just moments ago, our lovemaking had been wild and violent and fast, this time, he savored me, pushing gently into me, slowly, so slowly I thought I would die from the sweet torment. I remembered that first night when he’d taken what I’d given him, he’d made love to me exactly like this—in
this soft, tender way, that night, and in the process, ruined me for any other men.
He looked down at me as he moved his hips ever so slowly, making me catch my breath. I returned his stare, not letting go of the pull in his magnetic blue eyes. He lowered himself on his forearms and placed his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. There was so much in this small gesture. So, so much.
He loved me.
We could figure this out.
Why couldn’t he admit it to himself? Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, he moved, each time hitting that perfect spot that he’d found all those years ago, making me moan and close my eyes as the whirlwind of pleasure enveloped me. He’d been my first, and my heart, my body, my soul, recognized that he should be my last.
And he continued, ever so slowly, to push me to the brink but hold me back by a mere inch each time, teasing, taunting, always bringing me to the edge and slowly pulling me back. It was delicious torture and I loved him so.
When he made love to me—because he was making love to me, regardless of what he’d said—it was all so clear. Why couldn’t he see with such clarity outside of the bedroom?
He was mine.
***
Damien
I awoke from a nightmare, only to find a soft, warm body curled into me. It took me a second to realize that it was her, truly her against me, her small body tucked in as I spooned her. My heart ached at having her in my arms, again. We’d spent so many nights like this all those years ago, her sleeping so softly, angel-like, against me. In those early days, sleeping was all we’d done.
And in spite of my hunger for her, I tried to convince myself that I wished to hell and back that I had never given in. Wished that all I’d ever done was to tuck her in my arms—platonically. Then maybe, we wouldn’t be where we were today.
Yeah, if only it had stayed just that. Would things have turned out differently for us then? Would she still be a part of my life?
I bent my head down to kiss the top of her hair.
No.
Of. Fucking. Course. Not.
There were still days when I could barely get out of bed, barely function. There were the night terrors and the nightmares. That hadn’t changed either. In fact, instead of overcoming my shit, I’d created a worst monster. I let it all spiral out of control, sullied beyond redemption by old demons and new addictions.
And look what I’d just done.
I’d fucked her like a fucking beast.
I’d fucked her even though this time, more than ever, she wasn’t mine to fuck. I’d taken—like an animal, at that—what had belonged to someone else, someone who very likely deserved her in spite of how much I abhorred the very idea of his existence.
She still wasn’t for me.
She sighed softly and tucked herself even closer to me. She was always cold. That hadn’t changed. I grabbed the sheets and pulled them up, my fingers grazing her arm, taking in that gorgeous cherry blossom branch tattoo. It had expanded since that day I’d taken her to meet Saint at that small tattoo shop tucked in the heart of San Fran. It curled gently across her shoulder blade and onto her back, whisper-soft blossoms falling over her collarbone, looking so delicate, like they would fly away at any moment. I blew gently on her, half expecting the petals to scatter.
She was gorgeous, even more than when we were seventeen. With the passing years, she’d blossomed into herself, her delicate cheekbones even more prominent now that the youthful fullness of her face had given way to gentle angles, her small body still small, but somehow fuller. And those blossoms suited her well.
I looked over and saw her black bra on the pillow next to me. It was in tatters, a dark reminder of what I’d just done. I reached up to grab it, softly rubbing the broken lace between my fingers. I was still clutching it in my hand when a dark, dreamless sleep overtook me.
Bella
I call them all “Bella,” but they are not you. They could never be you.
I leaned down and gently kissed his cheek, for what was likely the last time. He moved slightly and mumbled something in his sleep but did not awaken. I stood there, looking at him, my heart ripped wide open. I loved him. I would always love him. But it was clear. He would never, ever be ready. He would never let us be what we were meant to be. And I could no longer hang on to my naive hopes at seventeen, when I’d fallen irrevocably in love with my best friend and thought it would simply be a matter of time before he’d wake up and realize we were meant to be together, that our souls were really just one.
I kept looking at him. My heart breaking all over again. He hadn’t conquered his demons, had instead torn open another abyss into which to drown. Would he be safe? I stifled a sob, my mind playing all of the ways in which he wasn’t, wouldn’t be. Why wouldn’t he let me in? Why couldn’t he let me save him?
He had dark shadows under his eyes, and even in his sleep, his face could not find peace. It was restless and pale. He’d move abruptly, jerking. I’d never realized this before. When I was in his arms, he’d always remained stone still. He began murmuring my name in his soft, soft, desperate voice.
I could tell he would wake at any moment now.
All things in their own time.
I’ll wait for you. I won’t ever give you up.
But his earlier whispers broke through the haze in my mind. This man does not need to be saved.
Liar.
But no more than the liar I’d been, too. I’d said years ago that I would stop fighting for him. I hadn’t. I’d hung on to tiny slivers of hope that slit my heart and bled me from the inside. Hoping, hoping that he’d be ready, finally ready to let me in.
It was clear he would never, ever be.
And so, I brushed his ink black hair from his brow with featherlight fingers. “Goodnight, kisses and bites, my Damien James.”
I threw him one last look before bending down to pick up my shoes and walking out of his room . . . and his life.
Bella
I spent nearly a year sorting my life out. I did not hear from Dame. I hadn’t expected to. But I still checked his Instagram and googled him at regular intervals, just to set my mind at ease that he was still . . . alive.
And so, I spent those months reconnecting with myself and finally accepting the fact that I would be missing a part of my soul forever. I could be ok with that and not hope for a miracle any longer. I was tired of fighting. At over a quarter of a century, I was seriously inexperienced. In life, in love. I’d dated a string of men but had only ever been with two. I’d been hopelessly in love with one who’d rather have cut off a limb than be with me. And the other? Well, I’d only ever allowed him to figure as a footnote in my life.
I refused to stay home and wallow in self-pity. I learned French, discovered new favorite books. Had dinner with friends from college, spent time with Lynda who’d fly in from Seattle just to see me for a weekend. I even took cooking classes. I found time to get to know who I was, lackluster skills in the kitchen and all.
I also threw myself into the launch of my nonprofit. For years, I’d plotted and planned. First dreaming about it with Damien, and then penciling in the details with Lukas, until I’d placed it all on a backburner because, somehow, I’d let life get in my way. Now was my chance to take my dreams back. Damien didn’t want to be saved, and neither did I.
I spent the next months researching the competitive landscape and writing my business plan. I had not meant to present my plan to my father because I didn’t need his funding. I had already made the decision to put the majority of my trust fund to work, which would have covered my operating expenses for the first five years. After that? Well, I had a knack for fundraising, didn’t I?
I was well on my way to making it all a reality, when, somehow, Michael Davenport and Robert Ellis asked to see my proposal. And I held my breath as my father, his lips slashed in a grim line as he read, nearly expressionless, the plan and various accompanying supporting documentation, looked up and said that the firm would be delighted to be early invest
ors in the project. Ellis, his kind, lined face beaming, had added that it would actually fit well within the firm’s charity portfolio and overarching strategy.
This tacit approval of my work made my heart soar. I couldn’t think back to any other time when I’d received it. And so, after pouring additional sweat, blood, and tears independently researching and executing the various aspects of my plan, I no longer stood alone.
It was my father who was at my side when, just a month short of my twenty-sixth birthday, we opened Mei Ying Davenport’s Musical Foundation in honor of my mother, the love of his life. Here, children and teens from the underprivileged suburbs of Los Angeles would have access to real meals, made from scratch and with love, musical instruments and recording equipment, and virtuoso tutors and scholarships—all for free. But most importantly, they would have access to a thing that should never, ever be taken for granted: safety. Safety and the knowledge that there were many who cared, and who cared deeply.
And for the second time ever, Michael Davenport seemed proud of me, his fingers trembling as he grasped my hand in his and gently squeezed.
“For Mama,” I whispered.
“For Mama,” he replied.
We went to a celebratory dinner, just him and me.
After a long silence, he coughed into his fist, cleared the frog in his throat, and asked, “Now that we’ve gotten your project going, let’s discuss important matters. Whatever happened to Lukas, Mira?”
I put my fork down, slowly chewing the fettucine in my mouth. I swallowed and grabbed my wine, sipping it. Finally, I said firmly, “Lukas? A little late, no? It’s been nearly two years. We broke up. We’ve moved on.”
My father pierced me with that cold stare of his. “Lukas Stone is an upstanding man, the best of the best, Mirabella. You can’t do better than him.”
