The Edge of Us

by Veronica Larsen

  "Where are you taking me?" she asks, laughing.

  Her laughter hits me square in the chest. I haven't heard it in years and it sounds too much like a dream. For a split-second, I fear none of this is real. Except it is real. She's naked, in my arms, covered in paint.

  "We need to wash this paint off before it sets."

  "I don't care," she groans. "Just fuck me some more."

  My lips pull up into a grin. There's another sound I didn't think I'd ever hear again. I carry her over to the small bathroom, thankful for the standup shower I use on the rare occasions I crash at the studio. I set her down on the sink, and she clasps one of her hands on either side, her feet dangling far from the ground.

  I shake my head.

  She might be tiny, but this woman is something fierce.

  She watches me, biting at her thumb, her eyes glazed over. She looks drunk off me, and she probably is. She came pretty fucking hard, for longer than I've ever seen from her. She's always insatiable with respect to sex, wanting more and more. There were days all we did was fuck. We'd spend sunrise to sunset tangled up in each other. There's something about being wanted by this woman that makes me feel worthy in a way nothing else can. It's always been my favorite part of being with her.

  I ditch the condom, and grab more from the counter outside. When I come back into the bathroom, I lift Mila up from the sink and set her down in the shower. We kiss under the stream, water splattering paint from our skin onto the tile walls and floors.

  She groans when I pull away.

  I grab another washcloth and soap it up. Behind her, I get to my knees and run the washcloth slowly down her body to wipe away all the paint. I don't mind this view at all. Neither does my dick. It's going to need some time to recover, but I'm already hurting to be inside of her again.

  "Did I make you forget?" I ask her.

  "Forget what? I'm still trying to remember…"

  Her voice is a soft echo of contentment in the shower.

  I take my time washing away the paint, enjoying reacquainting myself with every inch of her body. I press my lips to parts of her skin as I rid them of paint, kissing her over and over again through the trickle of water running down her skin.

  When her back and legs are clear of paint, I get up and turn her to face me. She tilts her head back under the water, eyes closed, and a look of serene satisfaction on her face. My hand glides up to the side of her beautiful neck.

  I eye the tiny formation of freckles there. Three dots in the shape of a triangle.

  "I don't think I fucked you well enough," I say.

  "Are you kidding?"

  "You shouldn't be able to stand right now."

  "Oh." She glances down. "I thought I was still sitting."

  I chuckle and a playful smile builds on her face. I can't get enough of her and I have no idea how I will ever be able to tear myself away from her side again.

  There's still paint along the front of her body, but the shower has worked to dilute most of it and it comes off easily when I drag the washcloth across her chest and stomach. Then I get to her arms and falter. I run a hand over the ink on her arms, my fingers tracing the words. For the first time, I can read the full sentences.

  She loved him in the shadows because it felt like home.

  When all else was lost, it was in the ruins that she found herself.

  There's a third one farther up her arm I hadn't noticed before.

  Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

  The last line is the only one I recognize. It's from a poetry book I gave her for her birthday once. I had tracked down a first edition version by her favorite poet, Pablo Neruda. I go still staring at it, a huge knot forming in my chest. I know I hurt her, but seeing it marked on her skin forever hurts more than I can stand.

  Her eyes open and she blinks at me a few times before realizing what I've been staring at. I swallow and pull myself together.

  "These are beautiful," I say.

  Her gaze lowers to her arm and her shoulders hunch inward. She seems self-conscious for the first time, as though she hadn't been truly naked in front of me until now. I grip her hips and tug her toward me, letting the water wash over us both and hoping foolishly it would carry away more than just paint.

  "God, Mila, please, please forgive me."

  I didn't realize until this moment how badly I needed to say the words. I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive myself. She tries to speak, but her lips come together again without making a sound. Her brows tilt up over her eyes and her expression mirrors the ache in my chest.

  FORTY-TWO

  MILA

  HE'S GOT MY THOUGHTS scattered in pieces until I can't tell one from the other. Pleasure and pain, they come hand-in-hand with Cole now and I don't know if I can get used to that. Remnants of ecstasy still course through my veins, yet my heart throbs with a dull ache.

  There's a reason I once fell so deep for Cole. Even when I hated him, I could not deny what hooked me in the first place. I've never found it in anyone else. He's stunning, yes, with his sharp, masculine face and bottomless gaze. But it's a way about him. He wraps me up in him, all consuming and intense.

  Cole escaped reality often enough to know how to hold on to it when he could. He taught me how to do the same by hooking me into moments with plain sincerity, and a deep genuineness that seemed at odds with his tumultuous childhood. He's not in any way a perfect man, but there's no doubt in my heart he's real. Honest. Pure in the ways people who sometimes make the worst decisions are.

  Even now, he's a beautiful man with a tormented soul.

  "God, Mila, please, please forgive me."

  His words sharpen my senses in an unwelcoming way. The last eight years have compounded inside of me, a massive tumor of emotions I don't know how to hack. Even knowing the truth, even understanding the nature of addiction and the entrapment orchestrated by Tobias, I can't say I forgive Cole. He wasn't fully in control when he disappeared, but he deliberately stayed away from me all these years.

  Being here with him now, as good as it feels, is also gut-wrenching. Because what was the point? Why did I have to go through so much in trying to forget him only to end up right back where I started?

  Life is cruel sometimes.

  My lips move, but I can't speak. My heart races and while I agonize over what to say, the silence speaks the truth so eloquently on my behalf. If I were Cole, my pride would urge me to turn away. Having a plea greeted by silence is a tough pill to swallow. But he's stronger than me. He lets out a rueful sigh and brings me in for an embrace. Relieved, I lay my head on his chest.

  The shower washes over us both. Cole holds me in silence and we don't move for a long while, simply breathing and aching together. Finding unexpected comfort in allowing ourselves to acknowledge the giant fault running between us.

  We end up on a mattress in the corner of his studio. I lie on my back staring at the vaulted industrial ceilings. Moonlight streams through the frosted panes of glass overhead. Seeing it's still nighttime outside is disorienting. It's as if I've lived three lives since walking into this studio. I first came for closure, I returned for the sake of nostalgia, and now? I've slept with my past. Twice.

  I lift a hand to the side of my face, shaking my head.

  "What is it?" Cole asks.

  He rolls on top of me, hooking his arms under my shoulders and somehow keeping his weight off me even as his body presses into mine. He's watching me as I unsuccessfully try to decide where my head is at, where my heart is at. I've failed to keep track of them from the moment I learned he was back.

  I stare up at his face. His handsome face that makes my heart ache with memories and hope. It's like looking at something you used to adore with all your being and having to resist the impulse to want it back.

  "I don't know where we go from here, Cole. Half of me thinks I should walk out that door and never come back. I've got my answers. I've got my closure. But I can't stop my head from spinning around you." />
  "Let it spin. If it means you'll stay, just let it spin."

  His gaze moves across my face, up and around my hairline and back down to my lips.

  "Don't leave," he whispers. "Stay with me. Please, don't leave."

  How could I leave? I can't tear myself away when his body stirs awake over mine. When the memory of the blissful state he induces is as fresh as it is.

  "At some point we have to face reality," I say. "And it's not in here. It's out there. You and me, we always worked when it was just us, but when we factored in the outside world? The cracks would start to show."

  "That's not true."

  "You know it is."

  "That was then. This time is different."

  This time?

  "What are you saying, Cole?"

  "I'm saying give this another chance. We're not over. I don't think we ever were."

  I shut my eyes and when I open them again, he's as breathtaking as ever. He looks at me like I'm all there is, and as much as I wish I didn't need to see that, it sweeps me away.

  "We can't go back," I say. "Too much has changed."

  "Maybe we can't go back. Maybe we start over. Something new. We're new, we're different. It's like looking in a mirror, Mila. We reflect each other now."

  "Cole, I just…"

  He takes my mouth and my hesitation disappears between his lips as he kisses me with tenderness and warmth. It's like a goodbye kiss, the type that leaves you dazed in its passionate grief. And feeling on the cusp of saying no, I'm tugged by the sharp pain of even thinking of detaching myself from him.

  I can be alone, I know that.

  I'm not afraid of the ache, of yearning for things I can't or won't allow myself to have. I'm not afraid of nights where it might overtake me and seep into my pillow through tears. Loneliness hurts, but it doesn't kill you. If Cole broke my heart again? I'm honestly not sure I could go through that a second time.

  Walking away is safer, so much safer. And yet I don't want to. I'm tired of surviving just to prove to myself I'm strong enough. My strength doesn't have to come from suffering. It can come from happiness.

  Why couldn't it?

  I open my mouth again, but Cole sets his finger over my lips, worry etched in his eyes.

  "Don't answer me now. Just think about it and in the meantime, let me prove to you how things are different." He lays kisses along my neck. "You always said I was too closed off. Do you still think that?"

  "No, I don't. I told you, you seem more emotionally available."

  "It's you, you know that? You made me like this. Go ahead, ask me anything."

  His mouth moves lower onto my collarbone.

  "How many women have you been with since me?"

  He turns to stone at my question, then pulls up to look at me. I know what he's thinking, but I'm not asking out of insecurity. I'm asking because I have a decision I want to make.

  A ringing sound cuts into the mood. It's not my phone, but Cole's somewhere in the studio. He ignores it.

  "The question you should ask is, how many women stood a chance. The answer is none, Mila. Not one."

  "I'm asking because I want to feel you inside of me," I say quite bluntly.

  He blinks before recovering.

  "You're the only woman I've ever been with skin to skin. You were going to be my wife."

  The words run down my spine, a shiver from the past that almost was.

  "What about you?" he asks.

  The phone continues to ring.

  "Are you going to get that?"

  "No. Now answer my question."

  "Same. I've always been safe."

  His eyes narrow.

  "How many?"

  I tilt my head in response. "As many as it took to forget you."

  He looks away. The sound of ringing finally cuts off, the call sent to voicemail.

  "You could've spared me the response."

  "Yeah? Well you could've spared me the question. No one's ever accused me of being a saint."

  "Tell me this," he says, defiance flashing in his eyes. "How many knew how to handle you right? How many knew just how to fuck you?"

  I peer up, as though thinking.

  "Mila," he warns, sensing I'm messing with him.

  "None, you cocky bastard. Other men were too gentle with me, like they were afraid I'd break. You know I won't. You've tried."

  His lips threaten to turn up, but he remains serious faced.

  "I'm going to need you to stop talking about other men now," he says.

  "Or what?"

  The head of his erection presses to my entrance. I shudder at the delight of his skin on mine.

  "Or I'm going to have to remind you whose name it is you scream when you come."

  "See, that warning makes me want to be bad."

  He laughs, and teases more of himself inside of me. I drag out a sigh. He's so delicious.

  The phone starts ringing once more, jarring the moment.

  Again, Cole tries to ignore it, sliding a little more into me.

  "You need to get that," I say. "Someone's obviously trying to get ahold of you."

  "I don't care," he groans, eyes closed as he pushes all the way inside. "Fuck. You're on fire."

  The ringing cuts off, then comes back a few seconds later.

  "Cole!" I slap his shoulder. "Get your damn phone."

  He sighs, bowing his head, and when he pulls out, the suddenness leaves me empty and regretting my insistence immediately. He gets off the mattress and walks across the room to one of the tables. His ass is the most incredible thing I've freaking seen in my life.

  "Yeah?" he snaps, answering his phone. His tone changes when he realizes who's on the other line. "Mom? Whose number are you calling me from? Wait—what?"

  His posture changes, he clutches the phone tight to his ear and turns in a slow circle to face me. He stares at me, eyes widening as he listens. He sits back on the edge of the table, clutching the side for stability.

  My heart jumps into my throat as I rush to his side. Even before I reach him, I hear his mother's voice trailing through the receiver, twisted up in agony.

  "She's gone, Cole. She's gone."

  FORTY-THREE

  MILA

  THERE'S SOMETHING UNNATURAL ABOUT the murmuring of a crowd at a wake. So many people gathered in a quiet room weaves tension into the air, making people's movements stiff. And anytime someone clears their throat, it spreads into the sounds of one person after another clearing their own.

  As people enter, they stop to stare at the large photograph of a smiling Camille propped up on a stand. It's the Camille I remember, with a healthy, heart-shaped face and vibrant eyes. She was the first of her family to accept me when Cole and I started dating. She introduced me to all her friends and treated me like a sister.

  The plastic cup of iced water cradled in my hands keeps me alert, seeping coolness across my palms and fingers. I scan my surroundings, past the countless visitors dressed in black, heads bowed together as they catch up in hushed tones.

  I walk through the room alone, seeing both strange and familiar faces. More than a few times someone stops me, setting a hand on my arm to get my attention. Members of Cole's extended family who swear I look familiar but can't decide from where. Of course, when they realize I am the woman their nephew or cousin or whoever-Cole-is-to-them left at the altar, they grow quiet and awkward.

  Other times, people stop me for the opposite reason. They don't recognize me and are curious how I knew Camille. I say we were close friends, and the words leave an ache in my throat. Because the more people I speak to, the more I realize how little Camille and I had spoken over the past few years. Regret throbs in my chest, all the times I pushed her away because I didn't want to think of Cole. And the very last time I spoke to her…I knew, I knew she was in trouble, and I silenced myself for fear of overstepping boundaries. Boundaries that now, just days later, no longer matter.

  When I catch sight of Grant, I rush over to him. He's spe
aking with an elderly woman, a hand on her shoulder and his head bowed to hear what she's saying. I wait patiently nearby for him to finish.

  His gaze darts to me as if he feels me looking at him. He nods at whatever the woman says, his lips tilting down, then excuses himself and comes toward me.

  "Hey, Mila," he says, holding out an arm.

  I lean in to offer him a quick, light hug.

  Silence falls between us. He lifts a drink to his downturned mouth and glances past me. I never realized how playful Grant's typical expression is until I witness him somber. The lack of amusement in his features is jarring.

  "Have you seen Cole?" I ask, trying to disguise how badly I need the answer.

  "Yes. He's here with his parents. I think they're out in the hall. They're in shock, I think." He lowers his voice even further and leans in. "Elizabeth needed a double dose of Xanax just to make it out of the house."

  I peer over my shoulder toward the entrance and sure enough, I catch sight of David and Elizabeth Van Buren, Cole's parents. They stand side-by-side, speaking to a couple by the door. I can make out the back of Cole's head just behind them, as he speaks to someone out in the hall. The weight that's been sitting on my chest shifts a fraction, knowing he's here.

  "Tell me the truth, Grant. Is he okay?"

  "Cole? Yeah, he's fine. He's just wound a little tight, thinks he needs to do everything by himself."

  I've been unable to see Cole for two days as he helped with the preparations for the funeral tomorrow. I asked to help, but Cole made it clear he needed to handle things with his family, their way.

  Grant tilts his head toward me. "You're worried he'll relapse," he mutters.

  "Aren't you?" I ask, dropping my voice to a whisper. "His sister just died of a drug overdose."

  I set my hand to my stomach as queasiness washes over me. Hearing the words out loud, however quietly, rattles me to my bones. His sister. Camille. My friend. I raise my water for a sip, the ice clinking against the cup in my shaky hands.

  "I'm looking out for him, Mila. You don't have to worry about that. I won't let anything happen to him."