by Ella James
I find him looking down at me with a surprised look that softens as my heart pounds. “Gwenna.” He blinks at me. My stomach flips because he’s so serious. I start to sweat because I’m worried I hurt or offended him or made him mad.
Instead, he asks softly, “Are you really this way with everyone?”
I lean away from him, snariling apologetically. “I told you! Yes: insane.”
“No.”
“Crazy?”
“Kind.” The word is low and so soft, for a moment I wonder if I imagined it.
My cheeks burn. I go to roll my eyes but end up leaning my head back, looking up at the ceiling and giving an awkward little laugh. “I try to be.” I wink. “Just so you know, BTW, you’ve won me over as a friend. I don’t feel nervous when I smile around you.”
“That’s good. You have a lovely smile.”
I swallow. “Thank you.”
He stares at me for a long moment, so long my heart pounds. Finally, he nods and says, “You’re welcome.”
I choose that moment to take our dishes to the sink. As I tidy up the kitchen and he tries to help, we touch on the subject of my dad, and how he died of a heart defect no one even knew he had.
Barrett listens, drinking up my words, or seeming to. His eyes never leave my face, not even when we walk into the den. As I curl up with the remotes on one side of the couch, he’s leaning into the corner of the other side.
I turn one of the iron lamps on—a sun-shaped one with little holes all in it, creating dozens of tiny dots of light. “Does this bother you?”
His eyelids look a little heavy, but he gives a small smile. “Not at all.”
I reach into the basket beside my end of the couch and grab two blankets, a big, fuzzy bear blanket for me and a bigger brown fleece for him.
“You’re going to like this movie. I really think so.”
I’m right—for a little while. He watches Nemo with apparent interest. Then, around eight thirty, his eyelids start to sag. I start to shake his shoulder but remember what he said. About his trouble sleeping. I remember how I used to hate to sleep alone. Here at my house, maybe he would sleep more soundly.
Maybe I just want to look at him.
FOURTEEN
Gwenna
I take care of real bears, but I sell plush ones. Right after the sanctuary opened, I used some money from my own savings to buy the two bear suits for visits to St. Jude Children’s Hospital. The first time I went—with my brother Rett—I thought about how nice it would be to hand out teddy bears to the kids there. So I reached out to a few toy companies. On sanctuary letterhead, of course.
I asked to buy some bears at half-off, just for distribution at St. Jude. They offered them to me at two-thirds off the regular price, and after a year of seeing happy sick kid pictures, they started donating for free.
When I asked for the half-off price and proposed selling them for twice that on the sanctuary’s web site, they again offered them at a two-thirds discount. Which is how it came to be that the large closet in my office and the top two shelves of my bedroom closet are filled with small, stuffed black bears.
I spend fifteen minutes packaging some orders, stepping into the doorway between office and den a few times to watch human Bear. I feel slightly strange about myself for not waking him, for watching quietly as he sags into the corner of my couch, his long legs covered with the blanket, his bearded jaw tipped up as the back of his head rests between the couch’s back and arm.
I tell myself I’ll wake him up at 10:00 p.m. if he doesn’t wake up first. To my kind-of surprise, he doesn’t. I package more bears and check some emails in my office, peeking in on him a few times here and there.
Around 10:10, I remember I washed a load of laundry earlier today and never turned it over.
I walk softly from my office toward the laundry room, stopping by the couch to stand there like a creeper. Now he’s got an arm around himself. His shoulders seem pulled a little more inward; he’s slouched deeper into the corner of the couch. He’s so big: long legs stretching across the couch, so his feet reach the couch’s other arm. I can’t lie to myself: I like him here. It feels deeply right to have a man in my house, covered in one of my blankets, dozing by the TV. It reminds me of my parents. Of my dad.
I watch the gentle thrum of his pulse in his throat for a moment before I make myself go to the laundry room. I happily—albeit a little nuttily—leave the fluorescent light on almost all the time for my pink gardenias, and feed them special fertilizer that I order from Australia. When the laundry room warms with the heat of the dryer, hot, gardenia-scented air spills into the cooler kitchen, so the fragrance wafts into the rest of the house. The moisture from repeated loads of laundry makes the plants happy.
It’s weird, I realize, but so am I. At 26, I finally don’t care.
I flip the load of laundry over, open the door into the kitchen, and get a thrill when I realize Barrett’s still asleep. If I didn’t wake him, would he sleep all night?
The way my heart pounds makes me feel pathetic.
I hover in the space afforded by the partial wall between kitchen and den. Then I step back into the kitchen and get a chocolate granola bar from the pantry. One of the things I can do for myself, for my battle-scarred body, is treat it well, so I try to eat healthy minus any baking I do.
I mill around the kitchen telling myself that I should wake him up. Instead I decide to unload the dishwasher. I don’t think the clinking of plates would twist his dreams in the direction of wartime. Not unless I really bang around—and I’m not going to. Maybe he’d prefer to wake up naturally to me shaking his shoulder.
Yeahhhh. Keep telling yourself that, honey.
I think about that way he looks at me. The quiet, soulful way. I like him. Lots. More than is logical, I would imagine…not that I’m too much in touch with logic.
Why do I like him? I wonder as I peer into the den. His looks—sure. But I never felt this way toward any of the guy models I knew. It’s not just his looks. It’s his…everything. I like him unconditionally. Which reminds me of a quote by C.S. Lewis: “Love is not an affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person’s ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.”
I tell myself that quote is bunk. I don’t love Barrett, whom I barely even know. But really—what if he’s my person? What if it’s fate that he moved in next door?
I roll my eyes and step back over by the table. Still, I’m unable to do anything but stand here rooted to the floor, trying to imagine other nights like this.
I’m lonely. That’s all. And he’s pretty, mysterious, and nice. He touched my face after I snariled. If he’s always been this type of guy, he’s probably had women falling at his feet since he was 7.
I catch my lip between my teeth. I pull out my phone and text Jamie.
‘Neighbor guy is here. He fell asleep on my couch. I’m feeling all domestic and I want him. Help!’
I see the little bubble, letting me know she’s typing. I’m like Pavlov’s dog, smiling at the site of it. ‘I knew it!’
‘Fuck you.’ I add one of those adorable new flipping-the-bird icons my iPhone has. ‘Fuck HIM,’ I type, adding the laughing face with tears dripping from its little emoticon eyes.
‘You’re hopeless,’ she writes back.
‘You love me.’
I set the phone down on the counter and decide to make some jam out of the blackberries I bought the other day at the farmer’s market.
When I’ve got my little metal and glass food mill, a soup pot, and a bunch of sugar set out on the counter, I take a picture and text it to Jamie, tacking on the little smilie with the half-smile, half-frown face. Then I type, ‘#SadSpinster.’
She sends me a photo reply. I click the picture to enlarge. It’s an empty ice-cream carton.
‘#AbandonedGirlfriend.’
She fires off another text. It’s a picture of the Mafioso with a smug smile and a thumbs up. ‘Before he left,’ she adds.
“Hashtag sarcasm,” I murmur to myself. I pour the blackberries into the pot and start to crush them with a wooden spoon.
That’s when I hear it: a low moan like a strong wind moving along the cabin’s logs. I stop and swallow. I don’t think it’s that windy tonight. A whimper reaches my ears and my heart kicks up into my throat.
Barrett
I fumble for my pocket. Many nights, it’s the first thing that I do. Go for my medic bag. Because I think the pain is physical. I think I got blown up and need to fix myself.
A few more grains of sand in the hourglass of consciousness, and my mind lights up like a bomb. Regret cuts through me, slicing through my heart, puncturing my lungs so I can’t breathe. I can’t move, and Breck—he couldn’t move.
It all makes sense, a kind of cosmic sense. I never try to fight it. Vaguely aware of something softer than the floor beneath me, I curl over on my side and hold my head. With every cell in my body, I know I deserve this. I lie here and try to take it.
I can’t stop the sounds escaping from my mouth. The wordless feelings. They’re the black that paints the night inside my head, keeping me lost.
And lost I should be.
I tug my hair because it helps mute the inferno in my chest. I push my face into the pillow and pull air in through its fibers. Until my body is awake enough to sense its own flailing. Until adrenaline starts flowing and I’m lightheaded. Until the shaking starts.
I roll over, wanting to stretch and feel my body. Make sure I’m still here…
Gwenna
“Barrett?”
My voice sounds clipped and breathless, spilling from my throat before I make it around the half wall behind the couch.
When I see him curled up with one arm around his head, the other covering his face, I feel like I just got punched in the gut.
“Barrett?” Softer now, because I’m standing right behind the couch. Sweat prickles my hairline and my heart throbs in my throat.
That’s the moment he jerks upright and writhes onto his left side, the left side of his head hitting the arm of my couch hard enough to thump.
A hoarse moan rips the silence.
Shit.
It all makes sense. Why he’s so tired. He always looks like he’s exhausted, even though he seems in physically good shape.
You’ve got this. Better you than someone else, I tell myself as I hurry around to the front of the couch.
My mom told me when Dad had nightmares, she’d tickle his feet. That way if he came up swinging, he wouldn’t hurt her. I peel the blanket off Barrett’s lower body, groping around for his soles. I feel…sneakers.
Shit.
My gaze lifts to his face out of habit, but all I can see is the top of his bowed head. I watch, feeling frozen, as his left hand, then his right one, grasps his hair. He breathes in huffs, then whimpers as he rests his head against the couch’s back. My throat knots up as he whimpers, then moans. He holds his head as if it hurts, and guilt fillets my insides.
I lean over, my stomach flipping as I grab his shoulder and shake gently.
“Barrett…”
He sinks back down into the corner of the couch, clutching his head. His teeth are bared. His breaths are strained.
A cold sweat prickles through me. What do I do? Even as I wonder, I’m pulling the coffee table over right beside the couch. I sit on its edge. Then I take a deep breath, grab Barrett’s elbows gently, and pull his hands down from his face.
His eyes are clamped shut. His face is tight. His posture is coiled, almost cowed.
“Barrett…hey…”
I fold his hands in mine. They’re damp and curled, half-fisted and limp at the same time. I lean over closer to him, squeezing gently as I whisper, “Hey—it’s Gwenna. You’re at my house, remember?” I stroke his knuckles. “We were watching Finding Nemo and you fell asleep.”
His eyelids flutter and he squints, recoiling like I’ve got a flashlight in his face. He drops his head back down. I feel a shudder rip through him. “I know,” he groans.
I release one of his hands and tap his bicep. “Can you look at me?”
He doesn’t lift his head. His shoulders rise, then fall. I hear him suck a deep breath down into his lungs—his shoulders curl a little on the exhale—and then gasp for another one. I can see the cords of tension in his neck. The tightness of his shoulders. He’s struggling to breathe. I can’t just watch and do nothing.
I move to the couch beside him, hesitating just a second while I find an angle that will work. Then I lean in close and wrap my arms around his wide chest. I press my cheek against the hard swell of his bicep and meld my body to his side.
I feel his torso stiffen. Feel his breathing hitch. A heartbeat later, one big arm encircles me. He crushes me against him, holding on so tight it hurts my ribs.
His mouth is on my hair. I feel him inhale, tickling my scalp. The breath shudders back out. For a heartbeat, I can feel his body lose some of its tension. Then he lets me go and leans away.
“Gwenna?” His eyes stretch wide. His lips part.
“Hey.” I stroke his cheek.
His eyes drift shut. There’s this little rumble low down in his throat. I think it sounds like someone easing.
Then his eyes open again. They search mine—frantic and confused. He blinks a few times. Stands up. He turns a slow circle.
“I’ve got to go,” he says, and stumbles toward the door. He looks back at me for a long second. Then he turns and slips into the night.
FIFTEEN
Barrett
The steady pitter-patter, the blanket of steam, the blur of streaming water all around me: these things quiet my mind some. It feels good until my eyelids sag shut and my mind slips into darkness. My body jerks as if I’m falling, and I come to slumped against the shower wall, shaky and nauseated from not sleeping.
I keep hearing voices speaking in Pashto. That time the Taliban had us hogtied in that cabin in the Hindu Kush, keeping us awake for six days straight before we shot our way out…
I reach down into a soap dish for my phone. I turn it on, then turn the volume off and turn the camera view on. As it happens, she is in her bedroom. I don’t know what time it is. She’s in a robe. Is it morning or evening? Details blur together. A black window… a bright window… the moving trees. All the endless hours watching from the chair in the bedroom.
She’s wearing her robe. Is she getting ready to leave the house or settling in for the night?
I lean my back against the shower’s side and notice her mouth moving and her head tipped back. The way her mouth stretches… She’s singing. I sit up, feeling interested in something for the first time in days.
I turn the volume up slowly, until her rich voice echoes through the shower, drifting in the steam above me. Fuck, her voice is powerful. It’s low and sultry. I feel it in the shaking of my hands, in the staccato of my pulse. It settles in the back of my throat, blurring my eyes. I close them, but I can’t leave them shut for long. I want to watch her move and sing.
I can’t believe it’s really her. That’s Gwenna.
A bolt of pride flares through me as I watch her flip her hair over her shoulder and dance around her room. I watch and listen—a combination I previously did not allow myself because it felt too invasive.
As she sings, she drops the robe. My throat tightens as she turns slightly toward the camera, showing me one milky-white breast. She turns a little more and I see both of them: small, soft globes spilling out of a lacy bra.
Lust surges through me. My dick twitches to life.
She leans over her dresser, toward a mirror hanging over it. I watch the curve of her back, the roundness of her ass.
My hand goes around my dick automatically. I groan and squeeze just under the head. I start to stroke it as she moves about her room, shimmying into and out of various shirts. I watch her ass as she turns circles. I fanaticize about grabbing her hips, stroking my cock until my balls tighten and I
think I might come, just watching her.
I grit my teeth and turn the monitoring app off. Then I stand up slowly, with a massive boner. I step out of the shower, check the time and find it’s during business hours, and dial Mallorie.
“Barrett. How are you?” That’s her answer.
“Doing just fine, and you?”
“I’m good. What can I help you with?”
“When do you think the house will close?”
“Hmm…” I hear nails clicking on some surface. “Earliest? Some time next week. Latest, the week or two after.”
My fingers clench the phone. “Thank you.”
“How is the house?”
“It’s great. I hope you’re doing well,” I add.
“I am.” I can tell she’s going to say more, so I beat her to the punch. “I’ll be in touch.”
When the call is dead, I slam my fist against the countertop. I close my eyes and I can feel her hands in my hair. Her arms around me. I can hear her voice, her pretty, sultry voice that gets into my dick and makes me want her.
I dry off quickly. Roughly. My head feels hollow. My skin hums. My cock presses against my lower belly. Gwenna dances in and out of my mind.
Not okay.
I go to the bed and pull up some porn on my phone. Even as I watch big tits and a gleaming, pink pussy, I feel her palm cupping my face. I imagine her fingers stroking the inside of my thigh. I watch some porn star suck a dick and I imagine Gwenna’s lips, my dick.
I squeeze the phone as tightly as I can, then hurl it at the wall.
It’s because I’m tired. That’s all.
I go downstairs and make some coffee, waiting for my dick to deflate as the Keurig coughs and chokes.
Gwenna
Two nights. Two times sparring by myself next to the porch. I rang his doorbell yesterday at 5:30 p.m., but nothing.
I worry. I think anybody would. I clean, and sing, and talk to Mom and Jamie and, once, Rett. Jamie tells me I should use my key if I want to. I don’t. I don’t have a reason to invade his space. After what happened at my house the other night, he’s avoiding me. I wish he wasn’t, but I understand. So much more than most people would.
