by Alexis James
I’ve been with women before who hide under the sheets, women who shield themselves in a dark room and who would never think about putting their hands on their own body while someone else is watching. Amita is most certainly none of those women. Thank God for that.
She begins to shudder, gasping with the telltale signs of release, which I reward with a frenzied pace. My hips piston hard against hers, our eyes locked in that momentary time where nothing else exists but the two of us and what we’re doing to one another. Then she throws back her head, belts out my name, and starts to moan, lost in her release. I’m not far behind and with a few more deep thrusts, I dive off the edge with a harsh groan.
When I can finally breathe again, I lift my head from the crook of her neck and our eyes instantly meet. One soft palm cups my cheek as she opens her mouth to speak, then immediately clamps her teeth down on her lower lip. Whatever it is she wanted to say is gone. If my head was at all attached to my body, I might wonder why. The look in her eyes is a flurry of warmth and gratification, which I assume is her way of expressing emotion without saying a word. Good thing too, since there’s nothing left of me but skin and bones. I couldn’t verbalize a thing even if I wanted to. I could sleep for a year, and would if she didn’t shoot me a hot little smirk and pull my mouth down to her nipple once again.
Damn. I guess I’ll just have to take one for the team. I can sleep when I’m dead.
Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I smooth my hands over the black cocktail dress and make one more adjustment to my hair. I’m nervous, and rightly so. I’ve never been to a live-theater performance before. Since Mia has been moaning about it for months now, my expectations are quite high. Any place where you have to dress up to listen to music is reason enough for nerves. Couple that with a particular Spaniard who is less than thrilled about going along and has been grumbling about it all week, I briefly consider that I might need a celebratory beer before I leave.
I’ve done my research. I’ve watched videos online of performances, watched how the audience always sits in wonder, occasionally mouthing the words to a song they recognize. I have a bit of an idea what The Phantom of the Opera is about, but the way Mia rambles on about it I’m halfway expecting an out-of-body experience. Or something holy, if her reaction is any gauge.
One more touch of gloss across my lips and I’m ready to go. Good thing too, because the limo Cruz hired for the night should be here anytime. I just wish Marco was here with me now, instead of insisting that he be picked up at his condo.
He’s been … off the past few months. Ever since our talk at the wedding reception, when he practically insisted I confirm that I’m his girlfriend, he’s acted differently toward me. It’s so slight I can’t even pinpoint the exact change, but it’s there all the same. It started the morning after when he practically shoved me out his door. Since then, whenever we’re together he either leaves early the next morning or makes some excuse about why he can’t stay the night. I rarely stay at his place anymore—twice in the past few months if my math is right, and both times he couldn’t get me out of there fast enough.
I know he’s nervous about what this is. I’ve tried my hardest to make sure that nothing between us has changed. I don’t text him every day or try to make plans too far ahead of time. When we’re together I try to keep things light and fun. We do have a good time with one another and physically things just continue to get better and better. Weird, I know, especially since I suspect there are days when he wants to end it all and find someone new.
I should be heartbroken by that thought, and sure there is this weird pain in my chest whenever he gets that ‘fight or flight’ look in his eyes, but mostly I just feel remorseful. He’s everything I could want in a partner: funny, sexy, impulsive. Yet he’s also everything I don’t want: skittish, evasive, uncertain. It makes me doubt what I’m doing, what I’m saying, and sadly whether or not I really want to be in this relationship at all; especially when he so clearly fights against it with every breath he takes.
Ignoring the pain that centers in my chest whenever I think about making that decision, I lock up and head downstairs to wait. Thankfully, my wait is short. As the sleek black car pulls up to the curb, I take a deep breath and force a smile.
Marco steps out, gives me a wide grin, and kisses me softly. “You look gorgeous, sweet cheeks.”
I straighten his tie and give him the once over. A suit has never looked as good as it does on him, with those wide shoulders, trim hips, and long legs. I’m stunned as always at how incredibly handsome he is, and even slightly giddy to think about walking hand in hand alongside him tonight. I’m such a lucky girl. “You look pretty gorgeous yourself.”
He nuzzles my neck and whispers, “How about we blow off this evening, and I reacquaint my mouth with certain areas of your body?”
I tingle at the suggestion but shove the need aside, stating, “Not a chance, Moran. I’ve spent two hours getting ready for this shindig. You’re taking me out.”
He grumbles under his breath, slides his palm over my ass, and squeezes before helping me into the limo. Mia and Cruz are sipping on champagne and greet me with smiles and hugs. She’s lively, chattering a mile a minute the entire drive to the theater while the rest of us nod and mutter when it’s appropriate. By the time we arrive and step out onto the curb, I consider telling her to pipe down. I do give her props for her attempt to keep things light when there’s very obviously a thick thread of tension coming from a certain Moran brother.
Marco is silent as he takes my hand and we walk toward the theater, caught in the throng of people headed the same direction. I’m happy to see that my lightly bejeweled cocktail dress and high heels are appropriate, though I notice that some guests dress as if they are entertaining the King: full three-piece tuxes and floor-length gowns. Cruz shakes a few hands here and there, stops to introduce his new bride as well as the two of us, and then we move through the main doors and start up the long, winding staircase. Our seats are toward the top, a private box seating area that juts out over the main floor and gives us a spectacular view of the entire stage.
Mia and I sit in the middle with our men flanking the outside. While we girls look on with excitement, Cruz types on his phone, and Marco looks bored with the entire thing. Cocktails arrive as I scan the room and take in the large orchestra in their pit in front of the stage, marveling how the seats below us are filled to full capacity. There’s a heavy buzz of anticipation floating through the air and even though I have no idea if I’ll enjoy myself, I’m anxiously waiting for the curtain to be raised.
“You girls should have left us at home,” Marco grumbles.
A quick glance his way, I see his mood is darker than it has been in weeks. Whether it’s the fact that I dragged him here by his toenails, or he’s just in a general funk about everything, I’m instantly annoyed. He knows how much Mia has looked forward to this evening, and so have I for that matter. He could just suck it up for once.
“Stop being such a grump,” I state. “Just relax. It’s going to be fun.”
“Whatever you say, babe.”
Ignoring his bad attitude, I turn my attention to the stage as the first notes of the music play. I’m immediately sucked into the experience, the notes causing my skin to tingle. The elaborate sets and costumes make me feel like I’m in the moment. Mia sings along to a few of the songs, sharing a chuckle with me when her voice sounds less than operatic. Cruz even gets in on the action, leaning forward in his seat to absorb the musical fully. Only Marco remains slumped back, arms pulled tight across his chest, completely nonreactive to anything going on. At times I wonder if he’s falling asleep, but a quick look at his face says otherwise; he’s bored to tears and thoroughly annoyed.
By the time we return to the limo, I’ve had my fill of him and his tantrums, begging off when Mia asks if we want to grab some drinks. I barely look his way during the drive to my place and when the car slows to a halt, I say a quick goodbye and step out onto
the sidewalk. I have half a mind to tell him to go home, but he’s been brewing for a fight all night and I’m happy to go toe to toe with him. Besides, I think to myself, the make-up sex will be awesome.
The minute we walk through my door, I start in. “What the hell is your problem? You behaved like a spoiled child the entire evening.”
“I told you I didn’t want to go.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes we do things because it’s important to the other person.”
“Whatever,” he groans, yanking off his tie and heading into the kitchen to help himself to a beer.
I follow, perching my hip against the wall and reaching down to slide off my heels. “What’s going on with you? There’s more to this than not wanting to go to the theater.”
He throws me a dark look over his shoulder and stashes the cap in the trash. “What the fuck was that anyway?”
Confused, I reply, “It was a love story, I guess.”
Rolling his eyes, he tosses back half the beer and slams the bottle down onto the counter. “Jesus, if that’s what love is, I want no part of it.”
Risking a step closer, I say softly, “Tell me what’s bothering you. You’re upset about more than the theater production.”
Blowing out a shaky breath, he tears his hand through his hair and looks down at me. “I don’t know, babe. Something … something isn’t right.”
Taking his hand in mine, I pull him into the living room and down onto the couch next to me. “Talk to me. Tell me what isn’t right.”
Slumping back against the couch, he shakes his head and mumbles, “This. Us. Everything.”
Caught off guard, my breath catches in my throat and it’s an effort to shove aside the fear that attempts to take over. A fight I anticipated, but this? This is unexpected to say the least. “Okay. One thing at a time. You mentioned us. Are you not happy with what we have?”
“I don’t know,” he replies, which in my book is a way of saying no without actually saying so.
“Okay. Well, is there something I’m doing wrong? Something that isn’t working for you? Tell me and I’ll try to fix it.”
“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he states, getting to his feet and moving toward the window. “This is all on me.”
His cryptic words terrify me and that odd pain from earlier in the evening starts up once again in my chest. “What is all on you?”
He shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “All the shit going on in my head. I promise you though, you’ve done nothing wrong. In fact, you’ve done everything right.”
“I don’t understand. Are you saying you don’t want this anymore?” My heart is racing in my chest, fearing the worst even though I know we’ve been working toward this for weeks now.
“I don’t know what I want.”
I steadfastly refuse to cry, not now anyway. The way this is going there will be plenty of time for tears once I’m alone and he’s no longer in my life. I hate the questions that pour into my head and hate even more that I feel like I have to say everything I’m feeling out loud. “Do you want to see other people?”
He says nothing, which is more terrifying than either confirming or denying it. It tells me he might. That alone is reason enough for me to let him go. As much as I hate this, I don’t want him to be miserable or, God forbid, be so incredibly uncertain that he turns to his past life for validation. I could never live with myself or him if I somehow pushed him in that direction. His happiness is more important to me than anything. Even my own.
Knowing what I have to do and actually doing it are two separate monsters. The last thing I want is to wake up tomorrow and no longer call him a friend, no longer be able to pick up the phone and talk to him. The only thing worse than all that, is knowing for certain he’s never, ever going to me mine—not like he has been for the past few months.
Has he? Has he really?
Realizing how unsettled he is with all of this, there’s no point in delaying the inevitable. What happens if I decide to give this another few weeks? Then what? He’ll be more miserable, more distant, and more convinced that I’m the wrong person for him. And even though I want him in my life, I simply cannot sacrifice myself all over again. I spent four years settling for half-love. I’m not about to do that ever again.
“It’s okay, Marco. You don’t need to stay here for me. I’ll be fine.” I won’t, but that’s between me and the walls.
When he turns to face me, I’m completely thrown to see the pain in his eyes, the glistening that hints at unshed tears. His reaction is completely unexpected, so raw and honest amidst all the subterfuge of the past weeks. His jaw ticks with the effort to remain stoic and unmoved. Clearly, he’s struggling with something he refuses to name.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, chin trembling.
Rising, I stay right where I am and pray I don’t do something stupid like fall on my face or pass out. I need to hold him like I need to take my next breath, but that’s obviously the last thing he wants. He’s barely holding it together as it is. “Sorry for what?”
He blinks furiously and quickly averts his eyes. “I’ve gotta go.”
I refuse to ask if he’ll return, even though I’m certain I already know the answer. I guess I should feel lucky I had him for as long as I did, this so-called reformed bachelor. I should have known I’d never tame him. I’d hardly call our tentative relationship enough to change someone. I should have known I’d never be enough for someone like him. Truthfully, I doubt any woman is.
His steps are slow and measured as he moves past me and toward the door. I close my eyes briefly, say a silent prayer that he’ll change his mind and come running back to me, but when I open them once again, he’s stepping out into the hall and pulling the door closed behind him with a decisive click.
Blowing out the breath that I didn’t even realize I was holding, I attempt to get a handle on my emotions. Maybe he needs a few days, a week, to get his thoughts together. Maybe he’ll realize that he’s made a mistake and come back and beg for forgiveness.
Or maybe he’s realizing right now that he’s free, free to come and go as he pleases, free to date and sleep with however many women he wants. I’m no longer dragging him down, making him be a part of something he clearly never wanted in the first place. The painful reality is that things were only ever perfect between us when we were in bed. The rest of the time I fought constantly with his need to flee, his strive for independence and his steadfast belief that commitment was and is a bad thing.
Sliding back down onto the couch, I lie flat on my back and stare up at the ceiling. I wonder if leaving town would make things better. Maybe if I relocate, or take a trip, I’ll have a renewed appreciation for being single. Perhaps if I put some distance between me and him, I won’t hurt so much.
But how much distance can I really put between us, given that our lives are so completely intertwined since the marriage of his brother and my best friend? Sure, I can make myself scarce whenever he’s around. There will no longer be a family get-together where I’m included. I’ll have to figure out where to spend the holidays, since I’ve now officially been booted from all things Moran.
I think I might need to go to the hospital. There’s this weird shooting pain in my chest and something is stuck in my throat making it impossible to breathe. Now my hands are shaking and nausea is sliding up my throat.
Oh God. I’m gonna puke.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I heave violently then drop back on my ass and wait for my stomach to settle, which it does almost immediately. I suppose that’s a good thing, considering I’m still convinced I must be suffering from a heart attack or some other malaise. Surely this could have nothing to do with the fact that Marco just dropped me like a hot potato, giving no reason why, only a useless, “I’m sorry.”
Sorry for what?
Did he step out on me? Did he do something else, something equally as sleazy? Is this more about what’s going on inside his head than his h
eart?
I can say for certain that I never stepped out on him, never even looked at another guy. Well, that’s a lie because I did look at Henry Cavill on the internet, but mostly that was to marvel at how much he looks like Marco … or how much Marco looks like him. Either way, they could be brothers.
Oh man, does this mean I can never watch Superman again?
Does this mean that every time I see Cruz, all I’m going to think about is his look-alike brother who kicked me to the curb?
Yep, I’m convinced there’s something health-related going on here. My stomach is still rolling. I’m sweaty and pale, and the stupid pain in my chest just continues to worsen. It kinda reminds me of how I felt when my mom died—that sense of empty agony that lingered for days, weeks, months. Is this what I’m going to feel like a week from now, a year from now? Am I destined to carry this heavy weight of grief like a second skin for all eternity?
My stomach rolls once more, and I sit up just enough to shove my head in the bowl and expel what little is left in my stomach. Slumping back down against the wall, my eyes fill with tears.
Oh my God. Is this what it feels like when your heart breaks in two?
I’ve been sitting on my balcony for so long now my ass is numb. The entire day has somehow slipped by without notice. I’ve seen the sun rise and set, felt the engulfing mugginess of the warm air on my skin. I’ve gotten up once all day and that was only to use the john. I haven’t eaten, haven’t showered, haven’t even had a glass of water. I’ve done nothing but sit in this same exact place since I walked in last night. Last night, after I broke things off with Amita for good.
Well, technically I didn’t actually break up with her. I never actually said the words “I’m breaking up with you”. My silence might as well have. I only hope she can find it in her heart not to hate me at some point—eventually. Right now I hate me enough for both of us.
