By Saturday, I finally deemed myself human again, but Holden still refused to let me resume my regularly scheduled activities. “The reason most people relapse after being sick is because they feel better, so they jump back in, not recognizing their bodies haven’t fully recovered. There’s a big difference between feeling better and returning to normal.”
“Not in my book, there’s not,” I argued while he slipped on his shoes. I’d woken up and found his side empty—something I needed to stop saying before I actually believed I had a side. When I went out to the living room to look for him, I found him on the couch, dressed in workout clothes. “I was actually feeling better yesterday and decided to take one more day to rest. Which means today, I’m back to normal.”
“Okay…wanna go for a jog with me?”
I scrunched my nose and curled my lip in disgust. “No. I think I’ll pass.”
“Good then. You stay here, watch TV or do whatever, and when I get back, we’ll spend the day on the couch watching all the comic movies—in any order you want. Sound good? A lazy day without being stuck in bed?”
Holden left for his run, and when he returned, we did exactly as he suggested. We took a break to make dinner—both of us. Together. He grabbed things from the fridge and pantry and basically made up something with the ingredients we had. I chopped, he sautéed—or whatever he did on the stove to cook our dinner. We moved around each other fluently and stood within breathing distance of one another while sharing tasks. We ate together, like we did every night, but for some reason, this time just felt easier. Natural. Like we had been doing this together all our lives. And when we were done, we headed back to the couch to finish our movie marathon.
However, it was anything but a lazy day for me. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way it felt to have his arms wrapped around me, my spine pressed along his chest. I missed his smell, his firm touch and large hands exploring my flesh, his words reverberating through his body. I wanted it again. More of it. All of it.
But I couldn’t.
I needed to sleep in my own bed. Alone. I needed to wake up the next morning without the urge to touch him, or for him to touch me. So after one of the Iron Man movies ended, we turned off the TV and made our way off the couch. It was a bit awkward while we silently had an entire conversation about sleeping arrangements. And I didn’t miss the slight droop in his posture when I slowly shuffled my feet toward the hallway that led to my bedroom, away from his. But he didn’t question or fight it, so I resigned myself to believing the slouch in his shoulders meant nothing more than he was tired, or maybe he had a kink in his neck from sitting around all day.
We said goodnight and went in opposite directions.
Although, as I lay all alone in bed, sleep refused to come. I stared at the dark ceiling, ignoring how late it was and trying to forget how long I’d been in bed. But I couldn’t close my eyes and relax. I’d had enough of that over this past week to last me a few years, but even if I hadn’t, my subconscious refused to shut down. I couldn’t stop replaying Holden’s “fairy tale” in my mind, the one that had taken him days to tell me. Every night, he would narrate a little bit more until I fell asleep, listening to his voice rumble through his chest. Even though I couldn’t remember that fateful Vegas night, there were so many things that sounded familiar as he recalled them.
And then I laughed at myself.
It wasn’t like I had amnesia and there was a slim chance my memory would return. I had been black-out drunk. Far too intoxicated to trust anything resembling a memory. Yet, that didn’t stop the overwhelming feeling of déjà vu when I imagined the scenes in my head as he revealed the story.
Refusing to obsess over it anymore, I rolled onto my side and closed my eyes. I fell into a light sleep and dreamed of water. Rather than vivid visuals dancing behind my closed eyelids, I heard sounds. Laughter, car horns, traffic, people passing. Then came the peacefulness of splashing, even though I couldn’t see it. Nothing made sense, especially the bright lights flickering. Some were blurry, others more like streaks of color. Then there was warmth. At first it was at my back, over my shoulder, and then it moved to my front. My face heated with it. My pulse accelerated and my chest tightened, yet my knees weakened. Amongst all the other noises, one became clear. Closer almost.
Deep and penetrating.
So close to my ear.
“I want to kiss you so bad right now.”
My heart beat faster, harder, more intense, while my knees buckled and my breathing hitched. I didn’t move my mouth, but that didn’t stop the words from coming out, in my voice, off my tongue. “Then do it.” So breathless and filled with desperation.
My lips tingled, and I felt so light I was convinced I floated away. But then his voice shook, and the heat lingered closer to my mouth. He said something, but I couldn’t hear it. A burst of air brushed against my lips as the words escaped him, but for the life of me, I had no idea what it was. Then he spoke again, saying, “Tell me you feel this, too. Tell me I’m not the only one who’s felt what’s between us the last few months.”
“I feel it.”
And then I did feel it. His mouth on mine, his lips leading the way. His tongue finding mine. Then our hands, roaming and touching and sensing. Our breaths combining, mingling into heated pants of air between us. A need, so large, so deep, so overwhelming came over me—and more than likely him, too.
Whoever he was.
But I knew who he was.
Even without seeing his face, I recognized him. As if his name had forever been carved deep into my soul, never to be erased. He was in me. All around me. In each heartbeat, every breath. Every waking moment. He had always been there. Always would be. Part of me.
I knew who he was.
And as I blinked my eyes open, breathing frantically into the dark, empty, quiet room, I knew who he was. Even though I couldn’t recall that night, and the memory was fuzzy and unclear and disjointed, I knew it was real. It wasn’t simply a dream. It was my subconscious telling me something.
Something I couldn’t ignore.
So I didn’t. I tossed the covers off my overheated body—only this time, it wasn’t from fever—and sat on the edge of my bed, desperately trying to catch my breath before pulling myself to my feet. I needed strength if I wanted to make it to the other side of the house. And with one last full intake of air to completely expand my lungs, I left my room.
I headed down the hall, past the living room to his.
I turned the knob on his door.
Opened it.
And brazenly walked in.
I only meant to crawl in bed with him and sleep, like we had done all week. I did everything in my power to not disturb him, to not wake him, staying as still as possible. But as soon as I rested my head on the empty pillow, he rolled toward me until we faced each other. Half asleep, he put his arm around me and pulled me flush against him, the heat of his bare chest surrounding me.
“What are you doing, Janelle?” His slumber-filled voice rumbled in my ear.
“I couldn’t sleep. Your bed is nicer.”