Hard

  My current reading is strictly research. Retinitis Pigmentosa research, to be exact. I purchased a laptop and had internet installed just for this purpose. When I’m not working, I’m studying up. I look at pictures, trying to understand what Jensen sees. I read articles and medical findings until my own vision starts to blur.

  I do this day after day. And I wonder if I should go see him. If he wants to see me. If he misses me like I miss him.

  It’s stupid. I know I should just drive over there and talk to him, but I’m a coward. Not because I’m afraid of him not wanting me. But because I’m afraid he will. And I know there’s no way we can move forward until I can dust off the skeletons in my closet.

  I’ve recently begun Googling grief counselors. I do it so much, I’m starting to feel insane. According to the websites though, I’m actually normal, which came as quite the shock.

  I like to tell myself I don’t make an appointment because I’m one of the only people on the planet without a phone. Usually the lies we tell ourselves are the easiest to believe. But I already know I’m full of shit, so I’m not fooling myself. There’s a perfectly good phone at The Pub. I just refuse to use it.

  I’m my own worst enemy.

  It’s funny in a not-so-funny way, Jensen is living in fear of his future and I’m barely living, terrified of my past.

  We make the most perfectly fucked-up pair, he and I.

  37

  Jensen

  I’ve spent an extensive amount of time on these knots. The entire length of black rope forms an elaborate zigzag pattern along her back from neck to ass. It loops around the front, accentuating each breast, and continuing downward to frame her pale pink pussy.

  It’s some of the best work I’ve ever done and will make for a great shoot. I should be happy. Proud. Excited.

  Instead, I feel absolutely nothing.

  Because Lindy’s face is not the one that plagues my dreams. Her hair is not fiery red and smelling of rosemary mint shampoo. Her skin is nearly the color of honey, not the creamy white I’ve worshipped for so long. Her eyes do not haunt me with their depthless emerald pools of pain.

  I don’t ache for the touch of her hand or the scrape of her nails. Her lips have no unexplainable magnetic pull. The scent of her sweat beading on her flesh leaves my lungs feeling empty.

  Lindy isn’t Holland. Just as Arebella wasn’t her yesterday. Or Leanne the day before that.

  I keep hoping one of these women will stir something inside of me. Or at least get the blood flowing to my cock again. It’s fucking useless.

  I finish the shoot with cold despondency and send Lindy on her way. If I’m going to be lonely, I’d rather be by myself. There’s no need to pretend when I’m in my own company.

  I press my palms against my eyes and release an aggravated breath. Every inch of me wants Holland to come back. Each cell in my body misses her. The blood traveling through my veins swims in search of her.

  I was never mad at her. Pissed she knew—that she saw my limitations. Pissed I couldn’t stay inside the bubble of denial I was able to create with her. Pissed that I am who I am and I can’t change that. But never angry with her.

  It’s getting harder and harder not to pound down her door and bring her ass back into my bed. I’m past pride. The only thing keeping me away at this point is the thinnest veil of self-restraint.

  But I stay away because I don’t want to resent her. Later, when my sight is nothing more than pinpricks of light, I don’t want to envy her or hate her because she has what I want. I don’t want her to take care of me or have to point me in the direction of the person’s hand I’m supposed to be shaking. Holding my arm to lead me down a flight of stairs or explaining what’s happening during a quiet part in a movie. The idea sends bile rushing into my parched throat.

  I can’t give her a good life.

  I can’t even give her a normal life.

  She deserves so much more. So much better. I want that for her. Need that for her.

  38

  Holland

  My birthday came and went and I didn’t realize it until today, when a customer asked me for the date. Even I know that’s fucked up.

  I pull into my parking spot, swearing to myself that tomorrow—tomorrow, I will make the appointment with the grief counselor.

  It’s a lie.

  I’ve broken this same promise three times already this week.

  Maybe I’ll actually go ahead and write the phone number down tonight and put it in my purse. If it’s with me, I might do it in a moment of clarity. Or one of confusion.

  I’m nearly to the top of the stairs when the figure of a man shifts into the light.

  I take one step back down, my legs unsteady.

  He’s the last person I expected to see waiting outside my door. In all honesty, I hadn’t expected to see him ever again.

  “Holland,” he utters my name, sounding almost as shocked as I feel right now, though he clearly came here for me.

  I swallow back my surprise and continue the rest of the way to my apartment, moving deliberately past him to give him my back. My emotions aren’t in check yet and I don’t want him to read them on my face.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He doesn’t answer right away and I can only assume he was expecting a different response to his impromptu visit.

  God, just the sight of him hurts. Pain rips through my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I don’t know how I manage to get my key into the lock with hands that shake with remembered devastation. But I do it, and then I’m on one side of the door and he’s on the other. I know he’s looking at me, his gaze setting fire to my skin, but I refuse to shift my eyes to his yet. I’m not ready.

  “Can I come in?” he asks, his voice familiar and unrecognizable at once.

  I want to tell him no, close the door, and flip the deadbolt. He has no place here. Just as I have no place in his life anymore. However, he’s come a long way to say whatever it is he needs to get off his chest.

  I step out of the way. He bends, picking up a box I hadn’t noticed and slips inside awkwardly. He’s almost too tall for my apartment. He fills the room, giving it an oppressive touch. It’s stifling hot, made worse by his suffocating presence. He looks around and I finally allow myself to look at his face. He’s confused, not understanding how I went from the spacious four-bedroom colonial home to this stuffy little hut of an apartment.

  “Why are you here, Darren?” I ask again, ready to have this over with as quickly as possible.

  “This is where you’ve been living? This whole time?” He sets the box on the bed and I eye it suspiciously before I let my gaze flit back to him. His hair seems blonder than I remember. Longer, messier. But other than that, he’s exactly the same. Lean and toned, tawny skin, pristinely dressed. And his eyes—large blue eyes he passed down to our son. He has no idea how much it hurts to look at him.

  “Yes,” I reply flatly. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m here because you’re here, Holl. Because you’re my wife.”

  I start shaking my head and I’m not sure how to stop. “Just, don’t,” I whisper.

  He closes his eyes, granting me a moment of reprieve. I don’t understand why he came here. It’s obvious it pains him to see me too.

  “You just left. You turned off your phone. You didn’t tell anybody where you were going. I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. For almost six months. There was nothing. You just vanished.” He sucks in a large breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I had to hire a private investigator. He searched for months, trying to find some kind of paper trail. He kept coming up empty—until last week. I had to come see you for myself. I had to know you were okay.”

  Last week. The DMV. It had to have been. A lot happened on that day, I guess.

  He looks around my home once again, that same look of bewilderment clouding his expression. “And this is where you’ve been this whole time,” he repeats, moving as if he’s goin
g to touch me and I step away quickly.

  “I’m sorry you were worried. I should have let you know where I ended up, but I was afraid you wouldn’t let me go.”

  He captures his bottom lip between his teeth, nodding thoughtfully. “I don’t want to force you to be anywhere you don’t want to be, but I have to know you’re all right. Regardless of what I did, how horribly I chose to handle things…I loved you. I still do.”

  “How much did you love me when you slept with my best friend?”

  He grimaces like hearing the words makes him sick to his stomach. “You weren’t there,” he rasps. “You had emotionally checked out on me. You left me to deal on my own. It doesn’t make it right. I know that. It was a shitty, desperate way to handle my pain, but it was the only way I knew how at the time. Alyssa was there, she was hurting too. She loved him too, she lost him too. And then we both were losing you.”

  I hold my hand up, quieting him. I can’t. Logically, I understand how my husband and friend found solace in one another. I get why. But I can’t stand here and relive it. It happened. It’s over.

  “I’m not going back. Not to that house, not you, not to that life.”

  His eyes fill with moisture and the sight causes mine to pool in return. I loved him so much once. He was more than my husband, he was my friend. That doesn’t just go away.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him honestly. “It hurts too much.”

  He nods stiffly. “I know. You were gone long before you ever left.”

  We’re quiet for a moment, both recalling that devastating period, I’m sure.

  “I’ll uh…get a hold of a lawyer and have him draw up divorce papers.”

  My stomach rolls violently. I haven’t felt married in a long time, but it doesn’t make it easier. “You can have everything. There’s nothing I want.”

  He glances at the box he set on my bed, giving another nod. “Can I hug you before I go?”

  The tears spill over. It’s completely fucked up how he went from touching me anytime he wanted to needing to ask permission. From the guy I couldn’t wait to see to the man I dreaded for months.

  Things change so quickly.

  “Yeah,” I croak. “You can hug me.”

  39

  Jensen

  I don’t want to end up like my dad.

  Night after sleepless night, all I do is think. I walk aimlessly back and forth, back and forth through my studio, two entire walls now filled with only Holland’s image. I study each and every last one of her photos. And I think. Rapidly, compulsively. Compiling a new list.

  After countless nights, I’ve come to one conclusion. My dad is alone, a dirty old man hitting on his nurse. And that is not who I want to be. I want Holland in my life. For the rest of my life. I want it so badly I can taste it.

  Life is fucking messy and shit happens on a daily basis. Nothing is going to stop that. I can be alone when that shit happens, or I can go through it with someone who will make it a hell of a lot more bearable. I want the second choice.

  Margo answers the door with a warm smile. She directs me to the den where Pop is relaxing in the old beaten up recliner he’s had since I was a kid. I don’t make my presence known, just watching him for several seconds. His iPod is sitting on the arm of the chair, ear buds tucked into place.

  “Quit being a creeper,” he says, speaking loudly over the music in his ears. “You want to gawk at me, come sit down and do it like a normal person.” He gives a tug on the cord, letting the round buds drop to his chest.

  I chuckle as I lower myself onto the sofa and prop my feet on the coffee table. “One of these days I’m going to sneak up on you.”

  “You can keep trying.”

  “You boys want something to drink?” Margo asks, popping her head around the corner.

  “I’m all right,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll take a beer,” Pop calls.

  “The hell you will,” she trills, disappearing as quickly as she appeared. I smirk, settling my back into the cushion.

  “I like her,” I offer.

  “Me too,” he replies, his tone full of innuendo. “So,” he sighs. “Lets have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “You’re here to ream my ass for spilling the dirty family secret, right?” He curls his fingers in a “come on” motion.

  “That was you?”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “I figured she just got curious and looked it up. You got a big mouth, old man.”

  “I really do. I have got to stop doing that.”

  “Might be a good idea.”

  “You drunk?”

  I huff out a surprised laugh. “What? No. It’s not even noon, Pop. What the hell?

  He holds his hands up, palms out, and gives a little shrug. “Just trying to figure out why you aren’t flying off the handle over this.”

  “Because I’m not pissed about it.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’m glad she knows, I guess.”

  “Huh,” he puffs.

  “I fucked things up with her, Pop.”

  He shakes his head. “Well then what the hell are you doing here? Go fix it, dumbass.”

  I sit forward, resting my elbows on my knees and stare down at my shoes, black against his gray carpet. “I want to. I’m going to. But I’m worried I’ll fuck it up again if I don’t get my shit straight.”

  He nods. “You will. So get your shit straight.”

  “How? How did you accept the hand we were dealt so easily?”

  “Because I knew I couldn’t change it, Jensen. You’re still dragging that dead horse around. Let it go. The time you have left is slipping away. Spend it wisely.”

  “I don’t know how to do that.”

  “Yes you do,” he says adamantly. “You find someone who makes you forget you’re miserable and eventually, you won’t be. You already did the hard part. You found her. Now you just got to take your head out of your ass and go get her back.”

  40

  Holland

  I have been watching him for several minutes.

  For one hundred and eighty seconds, I’ve looked into those gorgeous brown eyes. Let my gaze slide over his flawless, bronzed skin. Fantasized about those luscious lips and everything I know he can do with them.

  For one hundred and eighty seconds he has inspired my darkest desires and fantasies. Just when I was so close to succumbing to my sadness, I spotted him, and haven’t been able to look away since.

  He watches me, too, as I mix his drink, carefully adding a second cherry, just the way he likes it.

  I walk slowly to him with purpose, reaching across the table to set his glass down. He grasps my wrist around the cuff of the sleeve. His thumb overlaps his thick, long fingers, his eyes locking onto mine. The way he looks at me, the way his fingers tighten, I swear he’s remembering the way I looked tied to his bed. I shiver, because I remember that too.

  “Can we go somewhere?” Jensen asks, his voice low and raspy, nearly a growl. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Yeah. I’m due for my break anyway. We can go out back.”

  He reaches into his glass, plucking one of the cherries out and slides it into his mouth. My eyes follow his movements as he pushes his chair back, standing. He waits to follow me, but it takes me a moment to move. It’s only been a few weeks, but it feels like months since we’ve been this close. I breathe deep, filling my lungs with him.

  He takes me in from head to toe and back up again. I feel his gaze like a touch and it makes me shiver. I’ve missed his company, I knew that. But I hadn’t realized just how much my body missed him as well.

  “This way,” I breathe, leading him down through the back hallway and out the door into the small alleyway. I walk around a large pile of crates and boxes, moving directly under the light. I read that one of the first real issues people suffering from Retinitis Pigmentosa experience is losing their night vision and I want to m
ake sure he can see me. And to be honest, I want to see him clearly too. I’ve missed his face so damn much.

  Jensen leans his shoulder into the brick wall, crossing his arms over his chest. The stance is sexy as hell and I want to forget about the past few weeks and devour him whole.

  “The day I started showing symptoms, I decided right then that I would never have a family. I knew I’d never get married because I knew I would never have children and that wouldn’t be fair to my wife. I knew I’d never have kids because I didn’t want to carry on the curse, passing it down to my child. Didn’t want someone to have to explain what my child looked like to me. Ever. And I didn’t want my son or daughter to resent me in the same way I’ve grown up resenting my father.”

  His speech knocks me off kilter. I was so absorbed with my joy to see him and distracted by my lewd thoughts, I wasn’t prepared for him to go all honest and open with me.

  “I want it now,” he continues roughly. “I want all of it. With you.” He pushes off the wall, taking a step toward me. “I’m sorry for what I said—for hurting you. I need you to know I didn’t mean it. And…I’ve thought about you every second you’ve been gone. I want you to come back. I want you to be with me. And someday, I want to fucking marry you.” He closes the space between us, hesitantly placing his hands on my hips. One small touch and my body ignites. “I love you. I fucking love you so much it’s making me crazy not being with you.”

  My lips part in shock and I suck in a breath. I have no time to respond before his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding. I whimper, buckling into his body. My fingers knot into his dark hair, tugging him closer. Always closer, until there’s no way to be sure where I end and he begins.

  My back slams into the wall. Jensen’s hands are rough as they yank my skirt up my legs, bunching it around my waist. His kiss is feverish, melting all of my resolve.

  He guides my panties down and I step out of them for him automatically. His lips leave mine as he raises my panties to his face, inhaling me on the fabric. He releases it on a sigh, shoving my underwear into his pocket.