Walking into the greenroom, which ironically is not green, Harrison is asleep on the couch. Since being on tour, I’ve learned that he doesn’t sleep much on the bus. How he functions on very little sleep is beyond me. Although, after being on the bus and in different hotels, not only does my back hurt, but the bags under my eyes are getting harder to cover. I long for a solid night’s sleep in my own bed.
I contemplate waking him, but this is giving me an opportunity to really digest what I see. I’ve told myself over and over again that it’s the tattoos that are turning me off, but what if that’s not the case? The art on his arms is so intricate, not pieced together like Liam’s, who has what I’d call sporadic tattoos, Harrison’s tell a story. I just don’t know what that story is and as much as I want to ask, I’m afraid that he’ll take it as a sign that I’m interested.
I want a moment where I can trace the ink, discover the hidden secrets and figure out if this is what’s keeping me away, or if I’m not ready to move on, and do all this without him knowing. I don’t want to give him hope if that’s what he’s looking for. I also don’t want to be just another conquest. I’m not like the woman he picked up in the bar. If he’s looking for someone just to bed, I’m not it. I can’t be. Those days where I could be carefree ended when I committed myself to Mason at the age of fifteen. Never have I thought about being with another man until the other night, when Harrison kissed me. Never have I felt such power from another person.
I move closer, the carpet quieting my steps. His body is splayed out with his t-shirt lifted so I can see more ink on his side. As luck would have it, a skullcap covers his head similar to what Mason would wear when he’d go to the gym. I’m starting to think that he owns stock in a hat company or that something is wrong with his head and he’s hiding it. Yet, I know that’s not the case because he let that woman touch him, remove his hoodie without any reservation. When I tried, he shied away, saying he wanted me to know him.
What does that even mean?
My shins collide against the couch. I hold my breath, waiting for him to move, waiting for his eyes to open and find me staring at him like a stalker. My eyes appraise him. His dark stubble from a few days’ growth mocks me, as if it knows that this is one of my favorite things about a man. I allow myself to take in his form. His stomach shows the dark swath of hair, leading to a place I should never think about because he’s not my husband, but I can’t help it. He intrigues me, even though I’m not willing to admit these feelings out loud. Can I go the rest of my life being this way, not willing to let another man in? Is this what Mason would want for me? Josie and Liam are insistent that Mason would be okay with Harrison, but how do they do know? Is this something Liam and Mason discussed before he was taken from our lives? Mason and I never discussed whether we should find happiness with someone else if one of us was to die early. What if it was me, would Mason move on a year after I left this world?
I’d want him to. My girls need a mom, so why is it okay for me to accept that Mason would move on, but not myself?
Harrison shifts slightly and before I can move, his hip bumps my leg. His eyes open cautiously, probably wondering what he just hit. I take a step back and start to stumble. He reaches out and grabs my arm to steady me, keeping me from falling on my ass. His hand slides down my arm until his fingers are linked with mine. He pulls me forward until my knees hit the couch, but that’s not close enough for him or for me.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel out of control, as if someone else is making my body move. I lean forward and trail my fingers down his arm, over the ink. It’s the first time I’ve touched a tattoo and I expected his skin to be raised, not smooth. Harrison watches my every move without saying a word. His skin pebbles as I move up and down his arm, as does mine. He’s not even touching me and I feel excitement. When I look at him, his eyes are steady on mine. A smile plays at my lips and I hate it. I hate that he can do this to me when it shouldn’t be like this.
He sits up, his hand cupping my face. I lean in as if it’s automatic for me to do something like this. His thumb glides gently over my cheekbone, his fingers threading into my hair. I look at him and know what’s coming next and I’m so powerless to stop it, because as much as my heart doesn’t want to kiss him, my body wants him.