I can barely swallow, my throat’s so tight.
What the fuck have I done?
Why do I feel so wrong?
Fuck.
And yet, part of me knows I had to do it.
If we’d stayed together, I would have systemically broken her. I’d have tried not to and hated every moment of it, but I would have. She’d have spent all her time defending her actions, reassuring me, putting out fires she had no hand in starting.
I couldn’t bear doing that to her.
I tell myself I want her to move on and be happy, but petty fucking creep that I am, I really don’t. I want her to pine for me and not let another man touch her until I can figure out how to be better. I want to be magically cured of all the shit that runs through my brain on a daily basis and be the man she deserves.
But most of all, I just want to be with her. Especially after last night.
Jesus fucking Christ. Last night.
I didn’t mean for it to happen, but when she stood in front of me, thinking I didn’t love her, I couldn’t stop myself. My brain was screaming that it was a bad idea, but my body wouldn’t listen. I thought maybe it was a good thing. That it would … I don’t know … fix me. Help me be with her, somehow.
But it didn’t.
If anything, it made things worse, because now, I’ll always know what I’m missing. The first time we made love, I was so obsessed with being gentle, I couldn’t let myself go. I didn’t have that problem last night.
I wanted to consume her. Brand my name on every part of her body.
By the time we were done, I think I had succeeded.
The trouble is, she also branded me.
I cried in her arms. I don’t fucking cry. I don’t even know why I did. It just happened.
But then my brain kicked in. My stupid, paranoid brain.
Lying in bed with her as she slept, I felt like one of those animals whose leg is caught in a trap, knowing if I wanted to survive, I’d have to gnaw off a part of myself and leave it behind.
That’s how I feel now. Like I’ve carved out a huge chunk of my heart and left if with her.
It hurts. Fuck, it hurts like hell. But I know it was the right thing to do.
She doesn’t see it like that.
I hope one day, she will.
I almost laugh, but there’s too much simmering anger to allow it.
When I look up, he’s right in front of me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so serious.
“I’m not him anymore, Cassie. Never will be again. You have to know that.”
I nod. Every day, I understand that more.
From the moment I met you, it was all about you. I just tried to deny it.”
“And now?”
He gives me a hopeful smile. “Now I know I was a deluded asshole.”
I nod. “You were.”
“I know.”
“I mean, really.”
“I’m not arguing with you.”
We stare at each other, and the push and pull of how we are now makes me disoriented.
“So, what do we do now?” he asks and glances at the book in my hand.
I pick up my wineglass and drain it. “I guess we have dinner. Then … I don’t know. See what happens.”
Dinner is delicious. Conversation is full but tense. I drink too much wine. It helps me relax.
The thing is, relaxed is dangerous around him. Makes me think I’m ready for things. Builds a different kind of tension. One that has nothing to do with our past and everything to do with the here and now of us. The Cassie and Ethan who lapse into silence every few minutes because our brains are too distracted by each other to speak.
Instead, we stare. Avoid touching. Stare some more.
Gentle music plays as he leads me to the couch. The lights are dim, but he sees everything. Studies every movement. Watches me exhale and makes me tingle with need.
He squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head back. We both struggle to stay at opposite ends of the couch.
“I should go,” I say, more out of self-preservation than anything.
He sighs. “That is both the best and worst idea in the world.”
“It’s really sad that I know exactly what you mean by that, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s just another reason for you to get out of here while you still can. My noble intentions to take it slow with you only go so far when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to make every sexual fantasy I’ve had about you for the past three years a very dirty reality.”
“How dirty are we talking?”
“So dirty we’d have to do it in the shower.”
“Wow.” He’s good at shower sex. I remember.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”
“No.”
He exhales. “Fuck. I’m calling a car for you before I lose all self-control.”
We both stand, and I stare blatantly when he adjusts himself.
“Can I borrow some of these?” I ask, and gesture to the journals.
“Take as many as you want. From now on, I’m an open book. Even Past Me has no secrets.”