Sweet Obsession

by J. Daniels

  Maybe.

  The truth is, I don’t like thinking about Brooke with anyone else. Ever. I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to run into some drunk tosser who’s been with Brooke and makes it bloody known he’s been with her, and I sure as fuck don’t want to see it happening.

  Watching her with some other bloke, seeing his hands on her, touching what’s mine, thinking in that moment he has her when he never fucking came close, yeah, I reacted. I reacted how anyone would react seeing something like that.

  Seeing someone you love taking pleasure you aren’t giving.

  I was angry. Murderous. Rage running in my blood, and the pain, fuck, that was the worst of it. I ached in my bones. There was a hole in my chest, I was sure of it. Bile singed the back of my throat. I couldn’t breathe.

  I looked at Brooke and all I could see was her with him.

  I looked at Brooke, and all I could see was the woman on that disc, not the one I knew.

  Not the soft, vulnerable woman I had in the alley. Or the shy one giving me a first in that photo booth. Not the Brooke who laughed and played with me, or the one who told me she loved me and that she was mine.

  “Yours,” she said that day. “I thought I was yours. I want to be.”

  Did I imagine it all? Did I imagine the hold she had around my heart and the tie I felt to hers? Did I imagine this Brooke?

  I looked at her, and I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I gave her my anger and my pain. I spoke without consideration. I reacted.

  I reacted, asking something I was sure of minutes before.

  I was sure.

  She was crying. I knew she was, but I barely saw her tears. I couldn’t focus on that. Then she spoke and her answer gutted me. Her truth.

  Only . . .

  What if it wasn’t? What if Joey is right? What if we were both saying shit we didn’t mean, both of us reacting, being rash and thoughtless of the other person. Not seeing each other’s pain and only feeling our own.

  Is it possible?

  Fuck . . . is it?

  He said she’s been crying all weekend, that she’s messed up over this. Why would she be messed up if I mean nothing to her? If this was always nothing?

  Closing my eyes again, I see her face, her broken, agony-stricken face, covered in tears I’m now focusing on for the first time. Really focusing on. Her pink lips trembling and her entire body shaking.

  Shaking like mine.

  She was shattered. Fuck, she was. I couldn’t see her suffering. Not while feeling my own. It blinded me, but now I see it. She was crushed. Devastated. Because of how I spoke, how I looked at her. My reaction ripping her apart, and my question . . .

  My question destroying her.

  “What do you think?” she asked me, begging me with her eyes to speak the truth for her. The only truth she wanted to say, but I didn’t. I gave her nothing because I couldn’t. I couldn’t see her.

  I couldn’t see my Brooke.

  “She loves you. Fix it.”

  I gave her nothing, and she gave me everything. Me. No one else. She chose me.

  She chose me.

  A shuddering breath bursts from my mouth, blowing hot against my face.

  My Brooke.

  My Brooke . . . she chose me. She loves me.

  Loves. Me.

  And I’m the one who made her feel like she never mattered. I’m the one who treated her as if she meant nothing that day.

  I’m the one who made her feel like a whore.

  Pain sears in my jaw as I grit my teeth.

  What have I done? What the fuck have I done?

  WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE?

  I need to see her. Need to talk to her. Need to hold her.

  Groaning, feeling a thousand needles stabbing my skull and acid churning in my gut, shredding the lining of my stomach and burning my intestines, I ball my fists and try and push off from the bed.

  I get an inch. Maybe. Pain doubles me over. Scorching pain behind my eyes, in the center of my chest, blooming out to my limbs, my fingers. I feel it everywhere. I roll onto my side and hold my head. I taste bile in my throat.

  I have been doing nothing but drinking the past two days. Drinking and missing Brooke. Drinking and wondering if she was always too wild for me. If maybe we were doomed from the start.

  Was the sole purpose of meeting this woman to show me everything I ever wanted, and everything I would never have? Is the universe that fucking cruel?

  I couldn’t answer that this weekend, or maybe I didn’t want to. Fear bonded to my tongue and imprisoned my mind.

  I have no problem answering now.

  Impossible.

  Impossible, because I love her wild. It was always part of the attraction with Brooke. I love her rough edges and her sharp tongue. I love the woman who pulled me into that photo booth as much as I love the one who shyly came against my mouth. The sheep and the wolf. It has always been everything about this woman, her unbridled desire and the soft, sweet way she gentles for me. Her darkness and her light. I want them both.

  I will always want them both.

  We were never doomed. I didn’t move to Chicago to open my own studio. That’s not what brought me here. I moved to Chicago so I could find her.

  That disc, it means nothing. He never had her. No one has ever had Brooke the way I have. No one ever came close.

  I pinch my eyes shut and stay on my side, not moving. I breathe tensely through my nose. The pain decreases to a bearable throb.

  A few minutes pass and I’m trying again, sitting up and then immediately collapsing back down when the room starts to spin mercilessly.

  “Fuck!”

  I roll onto my stomach and bury my face into the pillow. I feel my heart everywhere. In my skull, pounding, the echo radiating along my scalp and down my spine. In my chest where it aches, it doesn’t beat. It won’t beat there, not until she’s with me.

  Not until I have her.

  It’s probably for the best that I’m too sick to move. I know I look like shit. Probably worse than I feel. If I were able to get out of this bed, there wouldn’t be anything stopping me from going to Brooke right now, not waiting and getting myself together. A change of clothes at least.

  No. I wouldn’t wait for clothes.

  She deserves better than this version of me coming to her and begging for forgiveness. I need to sober up first. Shower. Fucking shave.

  Christ, I’ll probably scare her looking like I do.

  I need to do this right. I won’t be selfish right now. This is for her, not me.

  Tonight. Tonight will be better. Or tomorrow after I get a decent night’s sleep and go long enough without a drink that I don’t reek of alcohol. I can see her in the morning, first thing. I can meet her at work, or at the coffee shop, or . . .

  My gut tightens. Rosie’s.

  Yes. Fuck, yes, tomorrow is Tuesday. Our breakfast, the one morning Brooke agreed to give me.

  I still want it. Does she? Will she show up? Will she be hoping I’m there, even though I hurt her and she has every right to hate me?

  Anxiety soaks into my bones. My heart rattles in my chest.

  God, if she’s there . . .

  Fuck it. I might ask her to marry me before I get my apology out. I won’t be able to stop myself.

  No. Come on, mate, she deserves to know how sorry you are. Give her that first.

  An extraordinary serenity warms my skin. I’m so close. So close to seeing her. If she shows up at Rosie’s or not, this unbearable agony ripping me apart from the inside out is nearly extinguished because either way, I’m getting my girl back tomorrow.

  And I’m never letting her go.

  Swiping my arm along the bed, I grab the furry leg of the bastard stuffed koala and pull him against my side, squeezing him.

  Only one more night in the tent without her.

  BROOKE

  I don’t know what I’m doing.

  I know what I should be doing. I should be sleeping, or at
least trying to sleep. I could use more than what I’ve been getting, which is turning out to be only a few hours a night. Not nearly enough. I’m exhausted. Physically and mentally. It distracts me from the pain a little so I’m okay with being too tired to care about how I look, and nearly too tired to care about anything. But since I am awake, and showered, at least half-way put together, I should be walking in the opposite direction on Fayette street and heading into work, but I’m not.

  I’m walking past the coffee shop, down the street a little further toward those yellow umbrellas.

  Why? Why am I doing this? I need all of the practice I can get, every spare minute I have to work on those flowers, and instead I’m wasting my time going to Rosie’s because it’s Tuesday.

  It’s Tuesday.

  Mason wanted this day so badly, this breakfast. Me, early in the morning, and I know he isn’t here. I know it. I know it just like I know that at some point today I’m going to hear that door chime and hope that it’s him, and it won’t be. And then I’m going to cry, and throw something, and scream a little. I’m going to miss him and hate him and love him because I can’t turn that off yet, and I’m afraid I won’t ever be able to.

  I’m more afraid I’ll never want to turn it off, and I’ll keep doing this.

  I know he isn’t here, but I can’t turn around. I can’t stop myself from crossing the street and stepping up onto the sidewalk. It’s programmed in me to look for him, to hope that he’ll be here. To hope that he’s still with me.

  A shuddering breath fills my lungs. My eyes won’t stop watering. I can avoid this torment. It isn’t too late . . .

  My body moves without thought. I scan the line wrapping around the building before stepping inside the busy café.

  The young hostess looks up from her podium, ready to greet me, but I avoid her eyes and shift my attention around the room.

  “Good morning. Is your party already seated?”

  I hear her question as I study the faces in the booths along the window and the tables spread out along the floor.

  Be here. Please, be here.

  I take a step closer to look again, and again. One last time.

  He isn’t here, and I knew he wouldn’t be, so why am I crying? Why?

  The first tear slides down my cheek. I focus on the hostess and shake my head, biting at my lip. She gives me a concerned look. I need to get out of here before this becomes yesterday at the coffee shop all over again, where I sobbed uncontrollably the entire time I waited for my order.

  I got a free muffin out of it, which was nice. Not that I had the appetite to eat it.

  Spinning around, I push through the door and run straight into someone, bumping into their chest.

  “I’m s-sorry,” I mumble, wiping at my face and moving to sidestep them.

  Large hands squeeze my shoulders. “Brooke.”

  My stomach drops. I look up at the person holding onto me, but I don’t need to. I know that voice. That low, relaxed voice. It pours over me like sap sticking to a tree. My bones suddenly feel heavier.

  Mason studies me with parted lips and absorbing eyes. “God, I’m . . .” he pauses, moving his hands down my arms, squeezing gently. “It’s really good to see you.”

  I blink up at him. “You’re here,” I whisper in disbelief, looking all over his face, waiting for him to vanish and for this to be just another layer of my nightmare. A cruel joke my heart is playing on me.

  “Where else would I be?” he asks, smiling a little. “It’s Tuesday.”

  My lip quivers. I don’t know what to make of this.

  He’s here. He’s here, and he’s touching me. He’s smiling. The man who wouldn’t listen to me, who would barely look at me three nights ago.

  The man who believes I never loved him and that everything I said was a lie. He’s here.

  I wished and wished and wished for this, and now I suddenly can’t breathe.

  I step back and his hands fall away.

  “I can’t do this,” I utter, pushing past him and darting across the street.

  I don’t know how to do this.

  “Brooke!” Mason’s voice calls out behind me. He sounds urgent. I know he’s following.

  And I run faster.

  I pass the coffee shop, dashing in between people walking on the sidewalk. Knocking into several of them and blurting out an apology between hasty breaths.

  Mason calls out again behind me. He sounds closer.

  Tears sting my eyes as I push myself to move, to not let him catch up.

  What am I supposed to say to him? I want to collapse into his arms and I want to scream into his face. I want him to hold me and I can’t stomach the thought of him touching me. I’m so confused. He isn’t supposed to be here.

  Why is he here?

  My breath is stolen from my lungs when my toe catches on something. The crack in the sidewalk. I don’t see it. I go down hard, smacking the concrete with my hands bracing my weight and my knee dragging along the cement.

  “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow,” I cry, rolling onto my side and pulling my knee to my chest. The pain is instant and unforgiving. Flesh is torn open. My hands burning and cut up from the concrete, blood beading on my palms, but my knee, Jesus, my knee feels like it’s on fire.

  “Fuck! Ow. Ow. Ow.”

  Mason crouches down beside me, a bit winded. Concern tightening his features.

  “Shit. You all right? Let me see. Come here.” He tries to slide my jeans up my leg, my bloody knee visible through the hole ripped in it.

  I brush his hands away, sitting up and wincing. “Stop. I’m fine. It’s n-nothing.”

  Mason grabs my ankle. “Brooke, you’re bleeding. Let me just check it. You hit the ground pretty hard. I won’t hurt you, I promise. I just need to see your leg and make sure this isn’t serious.”

  My chest shudders. I drop my hands to my lap, my palms burning.

  “You already hurt me,” I quietly reply, surrendering and slowly stretching out my leg for him.

  His lips pinch together. We stare at each other, and he looks like he wants to say something in response but he doesn’t.

  Using gentle hands, he pulls my jeans up my leg and over my knee, making sure to keep the material away from my broken skin. He bunches my pants on my thigh.

  I inhale a sharp breath when his warm hands hold my leg, his thumbs pressing and sliding around the tender area.

  The world blurs around us. Heat blooms at the base of my spine.

  God, this shouldn’t feel good. I’m injured. This really fucking hurts.

  Focus on that, Brooke. You could’ve died. The sidewalk almost killed you.

  This hurts. This hurts. This hurts. You’re not enjoying any part of this.

  I repeat that mantra in my head as he continues to examine my leg. Thoroughly examine it.

  He massages my ankle, my calf. He pops my sneaker off and presses against the bones in my foot.

  My toes curl. What is he doing? I didn’t hurt my foot.

  “Mason.” I try and pull my leg back.

  “Just checking,” he says, smirking a little and popping my shoe back on.

  Bending down, he squeezes my leg and blows softly against my cut, watching me with those bright blue eyes while he does it.

  My breathing quickens. I don’t know whether to cry or moan. I decide on a strange mix of both, which luckily goes unnoticed thanks to the car horn down the street.

  “This hurt?” he asks, forcing my knee to bend and then straightening it. He repeats the motion.

  I shake my head. “No. It just stings where it’s bleeding. And it hurts around my knee-cap.”

  He nods slightly. “Good. It looks like it’s just scraped really bad. You might’ve bruised the bone a little. You should be fine. No major surgery needed, I’m willing to bet.”

  “Okay.” I pull my leg out of his lap and attempt to stand. “I need to go.”

  I shift my weight on the ground, trying to maneuver this on my own.

  G
etting to my feet on a bum leg and without the use of my hands quickly proves to be a hopeless endeavor. Not only because there’s no way I’m going to be able to do this without any assistance, but also because Mason doesn’t allow me much time to struggle.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Leaning over, he scoops me into his arms and stands effortlessly, taking my weight.

  Oh, my God. What is happening?

  I squeak, flailing a little. “Put me down! What are you doing? I can walk.”

  “You think you can walk?” he asks doubtfully. “Relax, sweetheart. I have you. It’s a bit of a hike across the street to my studio anyway. Rest your leg.”

  Sweetheart? HIS STUDIO?

  He sounds so cavalier, like nothing monumentally destructive happened between us three nights ago.

  Did I imagine it all? Jesus Christ, am I going crazy?

  I tilt my head to look at him.

  Clean shaven, freshly showered, no signs of distress or obvious heartache in his eyes. He appears well rested and as stunningly attractive as ever.

  I barely brushed my hair this morning and I’m not even sure my clothes match.

  All of the pain I’m feeling shifts and centralizes in my chest. I squirm in his arms.

  “Put me down right now! God, look at you! You should be destroyed! You should be the one crying and miserable, and instead you look like this? Get off of me! I said I can walk. I can walk.”

  His eyes widen. Agony slips over him like a cloak.

  I mentally question if I just slapped him in the face somehow, flailing about like I did.

  That’s exactly how he looks.

  “I am,” he whispers harshly, his body tensing against mine.

  I still in his arms.

  “I am miserable. I have been, but I’m holding you. I’m touching you and I can’t help the way my heart reacts to that. I’m sorry. Know that I’ve been in Hell, Brooke. Know that the past few days have been the darkest of my life. Every second we’ve been apart, I’ve been drowning.”

  “But you look fine,” I tell him. “You don’t look miserable.”

  You don’t look like me.