Always My Forever

23. Gemma

TWENTY-THREE

GEMMA

Two hours later, and I have failed miserably.

To his credit, there has been exactly zero funny business.

But I couldn’t tell you a single major plot point that’s occurred in either of the episodes we’ve watched, though I could tell you exactly how close Aaron’s left hand has gotten to my right in that time. Less than three quarters of an inch, at my latest visual guesstimate, approximately seven seconds ago. Better check again.

It’s all I can focus on, every ounce of my being concentrated on that hand casually, smoothly making its way closer to mine, bit by bit. I can only hope my erratic breathing hasn’t given me away, that he doesn’t know the effect he’s creating on me by the proximity of a single one of his digits.

I haven’t been brave enough to move my arm away from his, and definitely not closer to it, too curious to see what happens next. I’m praying he’s not going to put me in another situation like two nights ago, but whatever magnetism is between us feels too strong to try to pull away from. And fuck me, I know curiosity killed the cat, but I’m positively frozen by his nearness once again. For the second time in a weekend. Every abandoned daydream, every wishful thought I’d ever harbored floats back to the surface when it feels like this between us. Like this is how it should be. My stomach is hovering in the vicinity of my throat with anticipation, but I can’t keep the traitorous thoughts at bay.

At the next tiny bout of leftward migration, I can practically feel the brush of his pinky against mine, and the rush of exhilaration that floods my core at the phantom sensation is beyond inappropriate. My thighs shift without my permission, squeezing slightly in an attempt to quell the throb that’s started between them, and that’s precisely when I realize how dangerous it is to be this close to this man when I’m still unclear on his intentions after recent events.

Or mine, for that matter. The longer I’m in his orbit, the more powerful the pull, and I’m only so strong. Even our oceans give into the call of the moon through no choice of their own. I’m nowhere near as impressive as Mother Nature, and if she can’t hold out, how am I supposed to?

He said he wanted things to go back to how they used to be, but am I just supposed to pretend I didn’t have his body on mine? That he didn’t finally see me? That his eyes didn’t beg me to touch him? After so many years of craving his attention, his touch, I can only imagine this is like putting a bottle of twenty-five year Scotch within reach of a recovering alcoholic, only a few days sober, and leaving them alone with it. This is dangerous .

As the credits roll and Aaron gears up to go straight into the season finale, I speak up, clearing my throat of the very large obstacle currently blocking it. “I, uh, I think we should call it a night.” Why my voice sounds squeaky, I’m not sure, but let’s pretend it doesn’t.

His head jerks to the left, his eyes finding mine, and he looks let down at my suggestion. “But we only have two episodes left!” His expression is stupidly adorable, like I’m wronging him by suggesting we cut the night off now.

“One, no?” I ask.

He shakes his head, like he’s clearing his thoughts, and nods. “Yeah, that’s what I meant. We can’t stop here, Gem, it wouldn’t be right!”

It’s when his eyes drift down to the nominal space left between our two hands that I realize he might not be talking about the show at all, and I finally, finally withdraw my own. My arm is a little sore and tingly after not moving it for this entire evening, but I’m doing the right thing here.

I force myself to stand, letting the blanket drop to the floor at my feet, and swivel my torso side to side in a much-needed stretch. When I turn back around, he’s still seated on the couch, but his jaw is hanging slightly open, and his eyes definitely just found their way up to mine from my backside.

Is he…checking me out? No. Fucking. Way. This is not happening.

This needs to end. He needs to leave, now.

As much as I’ve been enjoying my time with Spencer, and believe me when I say I’ve really been trying to keep my mind on nothing but him (guilty girlfriend blowjobs are a real thing—practically gave myself lockjaw the night of the double date), I’d be insane to think I’m immune to Aaron all of a sudden. Especially after the rush of false hope I had ever so briefly on Friday night. It kills me to admit that just his gorgeous tanzanite blue eyes raking my frame right now is creating more of a response within my lower belly and beyond than anything that Spencer has done to me with his words, his hands, or the rest of his body in our entire time together.

An emergency alarm sounds in my head, and a mechanical voice instructs me to stay calm, that this is not a drill, it is time to kick this man out of my house.

I try to sidestep away from him so suddenly that my feet trip over the blanket that’s around and beneath them, and I end up stumbling, toppling backward toward the couch. The couch that was barely large enough for the two of us when I was hugging my side of it. Now, I’m gracelessly falling backward, and I’m too scared to open my eyes and see where I’m headed for this graceless landing.

Two hands break my fall, cradling my back and ribcage as he gently lowers me down, chuckling at my clumsiness. But there’s nothing funny about how he’s holding me. My back pressed against his muscular thighs, one of his hands beneath me, the other atop my midsection, spanning most of my body, almost holding me in place, with my head cushioned on the armrest on his side of the sofa. My ass is resting on the edge of the loveseat, next to his long legs, and my feet work to kick the blanket free as quickly as possible, which mostly results in tangling it further.

Such an awkward and uncomfortable position shouldn’t feel so enticing, but that might have something to do with the way he’s staring down at me, all traces of laughter gone from his expression. In fact, I can’t tell if he’s breathing, but I can hear his heart beating fast as fuck. Oh wait, that’s my own. Shit .

The last time I felt his hand on my stomach, that morning we woke up together in his living room, it felt forbidden. This time, it feels intentional. Like he’s enjoying every millisecond we’re in contact, soaking it up. His eyes drift down my face, catching on my mouth for a second or two past the warning bell that starts going off in my head, and I don’t wait to see if he licks his lips, or if he’s going to shove me off of him like the last time I was lying on a couch with him.

I all but jump off his lap, feet finally freed, and attempt to jog to the other side of the small room, putting the coffee table between us and eyeing him with the awkward you’ve overstayed your welcome look that Alex sometimes shoots us with on those occasional game nights where we’re having too much fun to call it quits, even when the first few couples and pairs take off, trying to maximize the rare, truly enjoyable evening out.

He takes the hint, sighing and doing his own pre-stand stretch from his seated position, which seems a lot longer than necessary, and as far as I can tell, mostly serves to pull his T-shirt up those incredible abs, showing me a sneak peek at what he’s spent so many hours in the gym crafting. What I’ve spent so many hours helping to hone through keeping him on his regimented diet and intense schedule. He’s not about to star on the cover of Muscles Weekly, but that definition, those fucking hip bones, fuck me , my knees are going weak.

SOS! That same voice in my head shouts, and I tear my eyes away from his stomach, but it’s impossible to miss that faint smug look of satisfaction that graces his frustratingly gorgeous face that tells me I’ve been busted, and I berate myself internally.

The flutters in my stomach aren’t helping my situation right now, and I’m starting to worry the wetness between my legs might actually be visible with these light colored leggings on. I try to do the penguin walk all the way to the door, afraid to spread my legs (just in case), and since it’s really more of a waddle, that means it takes a minute or two for me to make my way around the living room setup back into the designated foyer space.

Joanna Gaines was right. Area rugs, side tables, lighting and some intentional decor really do create specific spaces out of one empty room. I bet twenty years from now, someone will be looking to do a biopic on the story behind Fixer Upper, and I can see Aaron rocking the adorkable, goofy DILF vibe. Maybe he’ll have the chance to play Chip.

I smile, both at that thought and also mildly impressed with the fact I turned this tiny place into a home that’s perfectly suitable for my lifestyle, when I realize I haven’t heard Aaron following me.

It’s as I go to turn around and look for him that I feel his presence behind me—electric, like there’s a charge in my body from the proximity of his—and the hair on my arms rises, goosebumps popping up on the flesh beneath it.

I spin around on my sock-covered heel rapidly, and come face-to-chest with him, practically jumping out of my skin from the shock of his nearness.

My head falls back so I can look him in the eye, and the fire waiting there for me quite literally takes my breath away. This is a look I’ve almost never seen in him before, and one he has most definitely never channeled my way before, not even across the table from me, or when he cornered me in the hallway on Friday night.

I’m acutely aware of the cool air hitting my one bare shoulder, the way the ends of my hair brush against that skin, almost taunting me, and the soft puffs of his breath hitting my lips. Every single sensory experience is a tease right now.

The sear of his gaze trailing down my face and neck, down to what’s below, awakens something within me I sincerely wish I never knew existed. Because now I know what it should feel like to be looked at by the man you love. And nothing else will ever compare again.

Struggling for anything to say, words completely failing me, I step back, trying to put some space in between us. Unfortunately for me, my little interior design tips haven’t actually made the space any bigger, even if it looks that way to the naked eye, and I bump into the wall in just a step or two.

My throat works to keep the saliva out of my air pipe and to keep flooding my lungs with oxygen, and I’m thankful for that, because I can’t remember a fucking thing right now except for what this man has always meant to me, how gorgeous he looks, and how I would give absolutely anything for him to keep looking at me like that.

But a different face pops into my mind as he steps closer to me, pressing his front against mine, and I freeze at the green eyes I see instead of the tanzanite ones in front of me.

“What if I was wrong?” The rasp in his voice when he speaks next is entirely new to me, and I’m half afraid my knees are going to give out on me from the overwhelming sensations swarming me right about now.

“Wrong about what?” I breathe, barely audible to my own ears. He must hear me, though, because he answers with the words I’ve waited half a lifetime to hear leave his lips.

“What if I don’t want you as just a friend, Gemma?” His left hand comes up to trace the right side of my face, his touch so gentle, exploring the curve of my cheek, my jawline. “What if I’ve been missing what was right in front of me all this time?”

I never imagined my dream coming true could hurt so much, but here we are.

Nausea surges inside me, and I know this is wrong. This is all wrong.

My eyes flutter closed, and the only face that’s waiting for me in my mind’s eye is that of Spencer. My boyfriend. The one who didn’t deserve my doubt a couple of nights ago, and doesn’t deserve it now, either.

“Stop,” I croak out, forcing my eyes back open. His hand drops back down to his side, but nothing else changes.

The way he’s staring down at me has never been captured on film before. I know, because I’ve seen every single episode, movie, and short film he’s ever been in. I’ve got a copy of every magazine he’s been shot for on the bookshelf next to my desk. This fire hasn’t come across in a single frame of any of it. His chest presses into mine, and my nipples react automatically, stiffening against the friction of our clothing, the firm muscles behind his.

“I have a boyfriend,” I whisper, my eyes trailing between his eyes and his mouth, which is breathing quite heavily at the moment as he takes me in in an entirely new way for us.

“You have a girlfriend,” I try again.

He doesn’t move, and I’ve never been less sure of myself in my entire life.

What does he want with me? Why me? Why now ?

This couldn’t be further from the way he’s always treated me, and I can’t stop the onslaught of images in my mind right now. Specifically, the moment something in his gaze changed. That moment he saw the way Spencer and I interacted at the restaurant the other night.

And it clicks. I realize this isn’t about me at all. It’s about jealousy, about wanting what he can’t have, and nothing more.

“You don’t want this,” I force out. “You don’t want me .” The words sting, even though I’m the one saying them, the one who believes them.

“How do you know what I want?” he asks in that same throaty tone, his voice deeper than I’m used to hearing it, and it goes straight to my core. I imagine hearing it in all the ways I’ve dreamt of since we hit puberty, and a flush spreads to my face, tears springing behind my eyes. I lower them to the ground, or, really, his solid chest, as that’s what’s blocking my view of it.

I try to block out the feeling of his palm pressing into my hip, the thumb that’s stroking my hip bone through my sweater, and the flutters that go straight to my most sensitive parts at the feel of it all. I need my strength in place to say what needs to be said, to do what needs to be done here. To end this before he takes the chance to begin.

“Because you’ve never wanted me, Aaron. Not once. And I don’t think you do now, either.”

I’m not prepared for the expression that greets me when I look back up to meet his gaze. That’s a kind of pain I know all too well. One that greeted me in the mirror just about every day for as long as I can remember. It looks like unrequited love.

It’s a pain I don’t want to see in him, but one that I’m not willing to cause in Spencer, or Kayla for that matter. So when he makes no move to stop, I keep going.

“ I definitely don’t want this.”

He breathes a single word in response that calls me on my shit, and tells me I’m not about to get away with it.

“Liar.”

There’s a smug smile on his lips I’m not used to seeing, the look of a lion having cornered its chosen antelope, when they both know there’s no escaping at this point, and all that’s left is to devour it.

His head tilts ever so slightly to one side and it comes down toward mine for the kill, the fatal strike that will end life as I know it, and all I can do is watch as his lips part and prepare to capture mine in a move I’ve been waiting what feels like my entire life for.

Desire floods my entire body as anticipation coils within my lower stomach, and delicious flutters have me trembling with need for the feel of this man’s skin against my own.

When his eyes move down to my lips, and his own are no more than a flash away from their destination, common sense slams back into me, and I turn my head away from him with exactly no time to spare, and his soft, inviting lips land on my left cheek instead of their intended target.

The warmth stuns me, the open press of his mouth against my flesh—and is that a brush of his tongue ?—causes my stomach to flip inside my torso, but in a blink everything else is rapidly overpowered by the feeling of betrayal. My innards turn to liquid, a violent, turbulent sea within me as rage builds.

The cool kiss of air greets the warmth of my cheek where his mouth was just a second before as he pulls back to stare down at me.

He looks genuinely confused, almost hurt by my reaction. “I thought…I thought this was what you wanted?”

“What about me dating Spencer for the last few months says I want you to touch me, Aaron? To make a move on me?” I’m practically screaming out of my frustration, and with how out of breath I am from being this worked up, the words leave me panting for air, my chest heaving against his where our bodies are joined. “Was it when you tried to make a move the other night, right in front of our fucking dates, and I almost kicked you out of my life forever ? Was that when you thought I was asking for this? Or was it when you promised me you wouldn’t do it again before I let you in tonight?”

“Alex said…” his voice trails off weakly, clearly having no idea what the fuck he was going to say to me beyond trying to get in my pants. No endgame in sight beyond a wet dick and three broken relationships.

Even worse, he’s still as fucking blind as ever. He didn’t even realize what could’ve been between us at all. Someone else had to point out to him that there might be something there? Whatever nugget of truth he got out of Alex, I’m dying to know, but that’s not my priority right now. My priority right now is for him to fuck off . He has no right to throw a fucking live grenade into my happiness. Twice.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice? Shame. On. Me.

Both of my hands come up from my sides, shoving at his shoulders as hard as I possibly can, and he stumbles back a step, looking genuinely befuddled at my lack of enthusiasm for his horribly timed move. The puppy dog eyes that have endeared me for years are only pissing me the fuck off this time.

Why. Why is it NOW that he decides to give us a shot, to see me as the woman I am and not the girl he grew up with?

He didn’t ever want me until he saw someone else did. That’s the truth of it. And I can’t trust whatever horse shit he spews at me now, no matter how much I might’ve wished for some iteration of this moment over our lives.

“Was she wrong?” his voice is barely above a whisper, and I know I can’t lie to him. Not outright. I’ve been lying to him about my feelings through omission for as long as I can remember. But I need to give him what’s on my mind this time.

“No.”

“Then what is it?” He lifts his arms and then drops them in irritation, like I’m the one who makes no goddamn sense right now.

The sarcasm tears out of me before I can stop it, and I don’t think I even want to right now. “What is it? What the fuck is it? I just told you, motherfucker. You have a GIRLFRIEND, Aaron. One who you told me you thought was the fucking ONE FOR YOU.”

His throat works, like he’s itching to deny what I’m saying, but he doesn’t get the chance.

“You said that.” I jab a finger toward his chest, not getting close enough for contact. “Like a few months ago, you said that. And then you set fire to us.”

His jaw is locked tightly shut, but his nostrils flare as he takes a pained breath in, and I see his chest expand with it.

“Or, how about this? I have a boyfriend. One who’s fucking good to me. Who didn’t need someone else to open his eyes to who I am, what we could be together. He saw me on his own.”

His mouth opens at that, and he can deny it all he wants, but we both know he never even considered that I’m a grown ass woman until he saw the way Spencer looks at me, the way he treats me.

I deserve someone who recognizes me for me. Spencer does. Aaron never has, not fully. He had me in a box, one that was penned in and clearly labeled friend zone, do not bang .

His face is turned to the floor, his posture more dejected than I’ve seen it in a long time. He pulls his eyes up to meet mine, and I think I must be dreaming when I hear the words that come out of his lips.

“Break up with him.” His voice is so quiet, it’s like he doesn’t even believe in what he’s saying, and I could kick him in the dick right now for choosing this time in my life, when I’m finally fucking happy, to turn everything on its head so he can have what he wants. Like I haven’t sacrificed everything I fucking am for his happiness for our entire lives. And the dam on my restraint has been broken.

The feminine laugh that reaches my ears is colder than any sound I’ve made to him before, but I mean every note of it. It’s the sound of someone who is certain of who she is and what she’s about. And she knows bullshit when she hears it.

“Break up with him? For you? The man I’ve spent my ENTIRE life following like a fucking puppy? The one who’s treated me like a kid sister, an employee, a friend, but never once even considered romantically in the dozen years we’ve seen each other daily? That’s the smart move here, according to you, huh? Just leave the first man I have a real chance at a future with, and risk absolutely everything for you, yet again? The guy I’ve been in love with since before you even landed your first commercial, but somehow I’m the liar between us, when you’ve never even looked at what lies between us? At least I’ve been honest with myself, Aaron. At least I haven’t been lying to my fucking self.”

My chest heaves, eyes aflame after letting loose the frustration I’ve withheld from him for months, maybe longer. He says nothing for a moment, eyes downcast once more, hands shoved in his pockets, his ass leaning against the back of the couch in the small space. When he does speak, his voice is low, soft, and he’s focusing on the entirely wrong part of my little speech. “You’re in love with me?”

“ Was , Stone. Was. But you made it clear that what you wanted wasn’t me, so I moved on.” I flip my hands up in the air, gesturing at him. “All of this is because you can’t stand not getting your way, nothing more. And seeing someone else appreciate me for everything you never could is just too much for you now. You just have to want what you can’t have, don’t you, Stone? Why couldn’t you have left us alone? We were getting back to where things were. We were FINE!”

His chin lifts until he’s staring me down, his confidence back. “You never even told me how you feel, Gem. You never even gave me a chance to consider it before. Now that I kn—fuck, Gem, I can’t unsee us now. There’s no going back for me.”

Silence falls, as my heart is firmly lodged in my throat and I try to reconcile the scene in front of me with what I had come to accept as my fate with this man. Part of getting over him meant recognizing that I wouldn’t ever hear these words from him, making peace with that, and this divergence from the plan I’d settled for, the way he’s giving me hope and taking it away over and over again is cracking something deep within me.

At his next words, I can’t remain silent.

“What if I’m not fine with us being just friends anymore?”

“YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!” I explode at him, turning my back on him in frustration, my hands digging into my hair, pulling, nowhere else to go. I’m using sheer will to get my tears to remain within my eyeballs, not wanting him to see how much I’ve wanted to hear these words. How many nights, over weeks, and months and years, I dreamed of hearing him say these things. But not like this. This is all wrong.

I’ve always known what I wanted.

Aaron.

Every single bit of him. His humor, his kindness, his ridiculously nerdy and occasionally emo self, and, yes, the parts of him that can be a downright asshole. We fit. We always have. I’ve known it since middle school.

Him? He’s always wanted sexy, trendy, someone ultra feminine, like a modern day damsel. You know, like a fashion influencer. Like Kayla. With me, he does the video game battles, the fantasy binges, the laser tag championships, the poop and boner jokes, and just life . With them? For his sake, I hope it’s more than just sex that they share. But I’m pretty damn confident they never get to see the parts of Aaron I cherish the most.

Has he finally figured that out? That he can have it all? Someone who’s seen every side of him, his best days and his worst, and still loves him for him? Regardless of what roles he lands or gets passed for? How much money a film brings in? If he gets nominated for a Golden Globe or not?

I’m far from convinced he really wants me for me. He’s said and done nothing other than show me jealousy. Petulance. Like I’m some unique designer piece he was gifted that was never quite his style, but when you finally donate it, he sees someone else wearing it, how good it looks on them, he has to have it back. That’s all my heart is to him; that’s all I am to him.

Facing the wall, my forehead pressed firmly against it, I pound one tortured fist into the textured plaster above my head, letting my aggravation find a way out. How is this the same surface I was backed up against moments ago, thinking all of my dreams were finally coming true for a (very mistaken) hot minute? Now it feels like the only thing keeping me upright, keeping me from fully caving in on myself and being swallowed by my confusion, my disappointment.

I just narrowly miss a framed picture (the two of us taken before he went to prom with his beautiful date, and me going alone, forced to attend by my parents, rather than moping at home like I wanted to) as my palm slams against the surface, but the vibration from my slap shakes it loose anyway, and I hear the glass shatter as it hits the ground. My heart can relate.

The sounds of his knees creaking as he bends down hit my ears (a permanent remnant of the slight injury he sustained on his one and only attempt at an action flick), followed by the tinkling of glass, and I think I hear him set the frame down on the entryway side table.

“Just…just go, Aaron.” The sobs are coming up my throat faster than I can choke them back down, and I have to cut off my airflow to stop the sounds emerging while he can still hear them. Strangled noises are audible anyway, and I say a silent prayer that he is honoring my request, my absolute need for him to just fuck off right now, and that he is on his way out, because I can feel the massive sobs about to wrack my body as soon as I take a breath, and I just can’t handle him seeing my breakdown.

I can’t lose my self-respect on top of everything else. I refuse to.

Thankfully, his soft voice reaches my ears, respectful, but firm. “I’ll leave, but we aren’t done, Gem. Break up with him.” There’s certainty in his words now. Footsteps follow, and the door closes softly.

I let out my breath and gulp down air, as much of it as I can get into my lungs, and the worst combination of noises come out in response. My face screws up in unimaginable pain, and then the wails start. Spinning around to press my back against the wall and letting the structure support my weight, as my legs seem incapable at this moment, I slide down along the entire thing, not caring when my ass hits the glass-covered ground, and the palm of my hand takes a slice right off the bat. Honestly, feeling the pain somewhere other than my hollow chest is a relieving change of pace, a distraction I welcome.

Hugging my knees to my chest, I bury my head in them, and I cry for every future I ever dreamed of.

The ones with Aaron.

The ones where I dreamt I could get over him.

And the ones where I feared I never would.

It feels like there’s no winning this. No outcome where everyone wins, and no hearts or egos get battered. The worst part is, I have no idea which outcome I even want anymore.

I’d long since given up on the dream of him finally opening his eyes to us, our potential. There was a flash of renewed hope on Friday night, before I felt stupider than I ever have before, and I sealed my heart up tighter than ever before. But the way he looked at me tonight was everything I could’ve wished for. Like he was finally, finally seeing what’s been there all along.

I know he doesn’t deserve my love, my loyalty, but it’s not that easy to cut him out of my mind, or my heart. And after tonight? I don’t have a single clue how I’m supposed to get him out of either anytime soon.