Chapter 3 #4
I shifted uncomfortably on the couch as memories transported me back there to my room in New York. With him.
I needed to hate him, hate him with everything that I was and yet…
My body could do nothing but want him. I wanted his lips, his hands, and his smell. My memory had become my own worst enemy because the more it pulled me back in time, the more I missed him.
I might have taken it from Logan.
“Logan…” I grinned. For a moment, I imagined him rifling through his brother’s phone to get my number so he could contact me.
It was funny and also flattering, and, what’s more, he hadn’t lied about it.
He was an asshole, frequently a pervert, and very troubled, but he wasn’t a hypocrite. He never lied.
He was very selective about what he showed of himself and even more so about who he showed it to. He’d offer up his body but never his soul. That he kept locked in a treasure chest to which no one had a key.
He was always so grave, so ponderous, and almost never smiled. Even during sex he was contained, unyielding, and methodical, as focused as he might be if he were playing some sport and not in the midst of sharing an intimate moment.
I could tell that I had in him a difficult riddle to solve.
Though my father had come to visit me again in the hospital before I was discharged, he’d never said anything about Neil because I tried not to ask questions about him.
The urge to know how—or what—he was doing was always there, but if I was going to give in to that curiosity, I could have contacted him directly. Which was something I had yet to do.
And I never would do it.
I shook myself and refocused on Neil’s texts, allowing the memories to waft through my head.
Do you want to…talk?
Mr. Disaster, the man who never wanted to talk. Except, that day, he said he did.
Why? I’d asked him.
Because today I told the Boy that there is a star in the sky for each of us, far enough away that our mistakes cannot tarnish it, and he seemed to agree. He would like to find it with you.
The Boy… I had always presumed that introspective answer was related to some event in his past that had likely scarred his soul irreparably.
I was convinced that Neil had a lot of suffering in his history, in part because, during those moments when I was allowed to explore his naked body, I had seen the small burn-like scars on his forearm.
There were three of them, small and round and red.
They weren’t very noticeable, but they wouldn’t escape a careful eye like mine.
I had even tried to touch them while I was examining his lovely tattoos, but Neil had grabbed me firmly by the wrist and prevented me from making contact with them.
Something had changed in his eyes in that moment; a shadowy, visceral anger bled into those golden eyes, warning me not to cross that firm boundary.
His reaction struck me briefly speechless, but I did try to get him to talk about it. It was no easy task with the way he fled immediately after sex. And, before sex, he was so good at turning my head around that I frequently found myself unable to form a coherent sentence.
He did it on purpose.
He used his body like a weapon.
He was well aware of how magnificent he looked and he projected an intimidating aura, an attitude so cold that it immediately iced out any attempts to get past it.
He was a clever game player, using his potent masculinity to sate women and make them bend to his will.
He made people want him and only him—immediately and unhesitatingly.
Neil wanted women to chase him, to be unable to forget him, unable to do without him because he himself needed those women to survive.
They were the tender delicacies that kept him alive.
I glanced back at the texts. I accept.
That was my answer that night, and there was nothing more after that.
I froze then, phone still in hand, subject to the tumult of emotions that swirled around inside me.
My cheeks flushed at the whirlwind of inappropriate thoughts, and I tried to keep myself from thinking about his impressive nude form, his sculpted muscles, his mature voice, and his hard-driving virility, which put most other men to shame.
Just then, my mother reappeared in the living room, swathed in a bathrobe, her hair damp, trailing the pleasant smell of bath soap in her wake. But she stopped short when she saw the lost look on my face.
“Mom…” I cried out. She had an inquisitive look on her face and I wanted to find out her opinion on Neil. “What did you make of Mia’s son?” I asked her frankly, which made her forehead crease.
I’d never seen him again after that one time in the hospital, but I was sure that my mother would have had several opportunities to speak to him or be introduced in the waiting room.
Logan told me that Neil had come to visit me every day during my coma, hoping that I would wake up, so she certainly had the chance to get to know him.
“Do you mean Logan or the older one?” She frowned, patting her wet hair dry.
“The older one,” I answered sheepishly, which made her smile.
“Oh, Neil… A very handsome boy, yes, yes,” she said and I suddenly felt uncomfortable. I tried to hide my nervousness, and she narrowed her eyes at me, scrutinizing my every reaction.
“But…” she continued, “we never really spoke. He would say hello and goodbye and the occasional word in between, but nothing more. He seemed like a taciturn sort of person, always on his own, just…not very talkative overall,” she finished thoughtfully.
I tried to hide my smile because everything she said was true. Neil was a curmudgeon, perpetually brooding and standoffish. People who didn’t know him would probably be afraid because he had a knack for intimidating everyone he met.
“Why do you ask?” I saw the smallest flicker of impishness in her eyes, and I did my best to erase it by putting on my most serious, uninterested expression.
“You know…” I shrugged my shoulders. “Your opinion is important to me.” And that was the truth. Even though I had always made my own choices, I loved to hear her advice or opinion on things. She was still my mother, the one person in the world who I trusted completely.
“I didn’t get to know him, and I don’t like to pass judgment based on the superficial, but he didn’t inspire a lot of confidence in me,” she went on in the sharper tone she usually adopted when she wanted me to remember her input.
I nodded and smiled tightly at her, trying to hide how disappointed I really was in the bad impression Neil had made on her.
I couldn’t blame her, though.
His attitude was misleading, and it often made people think poorly of him, though I was positive that Neil was hiding a human side and that, deep down, he knew how to be good.
If only he had seen the brighter side of life, something that had been denied to him since he was a little boy.
Maybe then he would have been capable of love.
But you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.
Ours was no love story.
Neither was it one of the fairy tales my mother used to tell me when I was a child.
Instead, it was real life, and only Neil could choose to open his heart to someone when he was ready. He had to face his own fears and push past his limits because, otherwise, he would die, sucked into his own darkness.
And no one else could save him from that.