“I don’t want to,” I say, wiping a stray tear.
His nostrils flare and I can see he’s having trouble controlling himself. “You’re mine and you need me, and I want you to please come the fuck upstairs with me.”
I duck my head and wipe a tear.
I sniffle.
“All right, come here.” He swings me up in his arms. “Good night, Diane.”
I kick, and he grabs me to him and squeezes me as he speaks in my ear, “Kick and claw all you like. Scream. Hit me. Curse the fuck out of me. You won’t sleep anywhere but with me tonight.”
He carries me into the elevator and then into our room. He kicks the door shut, drops me on the bed, and jerks off his T-shirt. His muscles bulge with the powerful movement, and I see every glorious inch of that beautiful skin—skin that some other women touched and kissed and licked, and a rush of new jealousy and insecurity knifes through me. I scream like crazy and kick when he reaches out and starts stripping me. “You asshole, don’t touch me!”
“Hey, hey, listen to me.” He traps me with his arms and his gaze. “I am insane about you. I’ve been in hell without you. In hell. Stop being ridiculous,” he says, squeezing my face. “I love you. I love you. Come here.”
He gathers me onto his lap. I didn’t expect his gentleness, I expected a fight so I could vent, but he disarms me, and instead I bawl in his arms as he holds me, his lips open on the back of my ear, his voice soft but firm and regretful. “How well did you think I’d cope when you left? Did you think it would be easy on me? That I wouldn’t feel alone? Betrayed? Fucking lied to? Used? Discarded? Worthless? Dead? Did you think there wouldn’t be days where I loathed you more than I loved you for tearing me apart? Did you?”
“I’ve left everything for you,” I cry, so hurt I have my own arms curled around myself as I physically struggle to hold myself together. “Since I met you, all I wanted was to be yours. You said you were mine. That you were my . . . my . . . Real.”
He groans softly and squeezes me hard against him. “I’m the realest fucking thing you’re ever going to have.”
My tears keep streaming as I look into his eyes, and they are so beautiful, Remington’s eyes. They are blue and tender, the eyes that see straight through me, the eyes that know everything about me, and they are no longer laughing and instead reflect a little bit of the pain I feel. I can’t look at them anymore and I cover my face as new sobs overtake me.
“It should’ve been me all those times,” I say. “It should’ve been just me, only me.”
“Then don’t fucking tell me you love me and leave me. Don’t fucking beg me to make you mine and then run the first chance I’m not fucking looking. I couldn’t even come catch you. Is that fair to me? Is it? I couldn’t even get up on my own fucking legs and come stop you.”
I sob harder.
“I woke up to read your letter instead of getting to see you. You were all I wanted to see. All. I wanted. To see.”
His words are so painful to hear, I can’t even talk through my tears.
I think I cry myself to sleep on his lap, and when I wake up in the middle of the night, my eyes and head hurt from crying. I’m naked. I realize he’s stripped me like he always does, and his skin is hot against mine, and his nose is in the crook of my neck and shoulder, and I feel his arms around me and I curl closer even when it hurts. We’re the object of each other’s hurt and each other’s solace. He pulls me closer, and I hear him scent me as if it’s the last whiff of me he’ll ever take, and before I know it, I scent him back just as fiercely.
FOUR
PHOENIX RISING
I feel like shit the next day, but then I hear Remington murmur, as we quietly have breakfast, “Run with me to the gym?”
I nod.
He seems to be watching me like he can’t figure out what to do with a detonated grenade. I’m trying to figure out what to do with myself too. I have never felt so consumed with jealousy and hurt, anger and self-loathing in my life. I’m so nauseous I don’t even eat, just sip an orange juice, and then I slip into my running pants and tennis shoes, and try not to barf when I brush my teeth.
Arizona today is an inferno of heat, and on the trail outside our hotel, I pull on my cap and quietly stretch my quads, trying to concentrate on the second thing I love most in the world after Remington: running. I know it’s going to make me feel good—if not good, then at least better.
We haven’t talked about it.
We haven’t kissed.
We haven’t touched.
Since I bawled like an idiot in his arms last night. When I woke he was looking out the window, his profile unreadable, and when he turned, as if sensing me, I had to close my eyes because I’m just afraid that if he’s gentle with me I’ll break again.
Now he bounces in place as I stretch. He’s wearing his gray hoodie and sweatpants, every inch of him a running boxer you would die for. Kill for. Leave your entire life in Seattle behind for.