But I would have happily danced fingers with her all night long.
It was close to midnight when the credits started rolling, and I knew it was time to end the party. Bedtime. She was falling asleep and I was almost there myself. I wasn’t disappointed, though. Was this what normal couples did? The boyfriend-girlfriend thing? The whole evening with her had been better than anything I’d ever done, and I’d happily accept any more evenings like this one that she might generously throw my way. I knew I’d get to see her in the morning, too, and I couldn’t fucking wait to experience the whole breakfast-before-work thing with her.
So I helped her up from the couch and delivered her to the guest room with only one sleepy kiss goodnight. “Thank you, Caleb, for inviting me to stay here,” she said while stifling a yawn, “and for being patient . . . with me.” She held the side of my face with her hand and studied me with her beautiful amber eyes. “I love that you are always such a gentleman.”
Again, something I’d not been before—not with any woman I’d ever wanted sexually at least. Even as I had the thought, I understood it was far more than sex with Brooke. It was just a driving want to be with her.
“Thank you, Brooke, for accepting my invitation to stay here tonight,” I whispered against her lips because I liked to mimic her words. “And for giving me the chance to deserve you whenever you’re ready,” I added before stealing another kiss.
The conversation we had before saying goodnight was pretty damn surreal when I stopped to think about the topic—to fuck or not to fuck. The contrast between how strange, and how normal it felt to discuss it with her, was starting to mess with my head.
No. Not true. My head was messed up from the minute she first spoke to me.
HER crying woke me sometime later. Once I figured out what I was hearing, I listened in like a voyeur, imagining the reasons she was plagued by terrible grief.
A shout of anguish, so great it gave me pain just hearing it, cut a path straight into my heart. Then softer sounds of crying followed, burrowing underneath my skin until I couldn’t take it another second.
I bolted out of bed and threw on the sweats I’d worn earlier. And then I went into her room and scooped her up into my arms. She didn’t even protest when I carried her across the hall and put her into my bed. Or when I crawled in next to her and pulled her against my body.
She just cried. And let me hold her and run my fingers over her hair.
It was the most natural thing in the world, and so I just went with it, figuring she would start talking if she wanted to.
“I dreamed of the accident. I never have before . . . that I can remember,” she said eventually.
“Tell me about your husband.”
“It’s not a nice story. I don’t think you’ll want to hear it because you won’t feel good afterward.”
“But I want to comfort you. Help you feel better. Will talking about it help, Brooke?” I breathed in the flowery scent of her hair and focused on the sensation of having her against me.
“It will probably help me to feel better, but not you,” she said.
“How can you know that?”
“I know, Caleb. What you said at dinner about my aura of sadness is correct. It’s there with me. I’ve learned that being honest and open about the reasons for it is what works for me. I don’t keep it a secret. People know what happened to me, and I am sure they feel very sorry for my pain. It’s a totally normal response for them to feel that way. But it doesn’t help me to deal with my sadness. It’s just something that’s with me now and I’ve learned to embrace it, and I’ve also learned how hearing the story of my loss is uncomfortable for most people. I don’t want to do that to you.”
“You won’t be doing anything to me, Brooke. Why don’t you want to tell me?”
“Because I like you very much.”
“I like you very much, too, and I’m here to listen if you feel like talking about it.” I kissed her forehead and just held her, grateful she allowed me.
In time she started to tell me her story . . .
“The last words I remember saying to him were, ‘Marcus, you’re drunk—let me drive.’ A punishing grip to my chin and throat came immediately after my comment. ‘Don’t,’ was all he said to me. Don’t was the last word Marcus ever spoke to me. It was all he needed to say. The rest of his cruel message was written in his pale-blue eyes that had always looked gray to me. My punishment would come once we were out of sight from the prying eyes of his family, and the few compassionate souls who knew of his perverse mind fucking, but were powerless to do anything to help me.”