Chapter Five
Rowan
The house is crowded, disgustingly so—sweaty bodies grinding together and the stench of hard liquor wafting through the air. I can’t make out any of the faces around me. They’re all voices, limbs, and movement.
A girl is talking in my ear, familiar and taunting. I’m holding a cup that I sip from intermittently, but I can feel my own disinterest. I’m bored; something is bothering me.
I’m trying to pinpoint it, this unwelcome feeling. Is it the noise? The people? The way that I can’t seem to fully focus on any one thing? Maybe I’m wasted, or maybe I’m not really here at all.
And suddenly, my attention is being snagged, drawn to movement across the room, and I see him—or I feel him.
I can feel with everything in me that this boy is mine. Or he should be, yet I know he’s not. Yet.
Benjamin is leaning against a table, talking with a girl I cannot sort out a single detail of.
“She had to have said something downright filthy…” the voice in my ear murmurs, fading away with each passing second. I can see his hands lingering on her hips, I can see him standing and taking her hand.
If Benjamin is meant to be mine, where is he going? Why is he leaving with her? Rage, jealousy, sadness—they all soar through me at once as I watch them head toward a set of stairs that are nestled into the back corner of the room.
As if I’m in a simulation, the house unfolds before me the further I immerse myself in it.
Halfway to the second story, Benjamin pauses, and he turns to me.
I can feel the weight of his gaze, the green flecks in his eyes, and the curve of his lips.
He’s daring me; he’s telling me to come and get him. I know it.
I find myself following them upstairs, pushing through faceless, meaningless people. Someone tries to stop me, but I ignore them—I don’t have the time.
I’m searching with a renewed sense of urgency—I have to stop them before she touches him. I have to. I can hear her soft panting, her gentle moans, and I know with everything in me that his hands are bringing those sounds from her lips.
They’re the same sounds he pulled from me.
I slam my fists against the door, and every second that I have to wait outside of its blockade, I grow more and more tense.
Angry. Scared. I stew in it, letting it spur me on.
So, as Benjamin finally opens the door, aura radiating hatred and irritation, I find it easy to shove him back and force my way inside.
He’s mad—racketing my own anger higher and higher with each snarky comment. And as he finally sends that girl away, I finally get him where I want him, pinned underneath me as I hold him so tightly I’m certain it’ll bruise tomorrow.
But I also know this is as much as I’m allowed. Nothing more, even if he is mine.
Benjamin does not understand this—not as he runs his fingers over my jaw and dips his tongue into my mouth. Not as he gets even closer and says to me,
“Make me cry. No one else can touch me like that—not the way you do.”
And I can feel the heat of him and his desire, his desperation. He wants me so badly. And only I can give him what he wants.
I will rip him to fucking shreds. No matter how much I will regret it in the morning, I will not turn down the opportunity to tear him apart with my own hands. I know this, and so does he.
So, as the night pushes on, I lose myself in the taste of him. In the sound of his delicious little whimpers and the heat around my fingers as I sink into him. And it’s so good. So fucking good, as if coming home to something I’ve missed for so long.
I want him. I want him. I want him.
And as Benjamin’s coming around me, as my teeth are piercing his skin, I know I do not have him.
I sit, startled out of my own dream by the sound of my ringing phone. Just as it fades away, I blink against the sun peeking in between my curtains. What time is it?
That dream again. It’s not one of my favorites.
I love it because, in my fantasies, it’s the first time Benjamin and I go… that far. But I also hate it, because at this point in my fantasy life, I haven’t won his heart yet. It doesn’t stop my briefs from being any less wet, though.
Climbing out of bed, I make my way to the bathroom and strip naked. Yes, at the age of twenty-six, I had a wet dream. A wet dream where I’m in high school, and I’m fucking around with my dream guy. Pathetic.
But it always feels so real. As if I can close my eyes and still feel the warmth of his skin, I can feel my own desperation to get him alone. To have his heart and soul.
So fucking good.
My phone begins to ring loudly again, buzzing on my nightstand. Abandoning my dirty briefs on the bathroom floor, I take to answering my phone in the nude.
And of course, it’s my mother.
“Hello?”
“Rowan, you missed my first call,” is her greeting.
I sigh, dragging my feet as I make my way back to the bathroom to run a wet rag over myself. Looks like I won’t be getting the chance to shower anytime soon.
“Sorry, Mom. I was sleeping,” I answer, trying my damnedest to keep the irritation out of my voice—and failing miserably.
She scoffs. “Choosing sleep over your own mother now, are we?”
“Oh, please. What can I do for you?”
I love my parents, I really do. But we love each other best from a distance, with minimal contact.
“I saw you won the competition you were telling me about. I wanted to congratulate you,” she says, and her tone is short and without much emotion, but I can detect the pride and affection in it, however small.
“Thanks. I got a pretty hefty check, so I was able to upgrade some equipment in my darkroom.”
She makes a humming noise. “That’s good. Have you heard from your brother? Any calls or letters?”
I haven’t heard from Ramon in almost two years, so she knows the answer before I even open my mouth.
“No, but I’m sure everything is fine. He’s not actively fighting or anything.” I do my best to comfort her, because although she doesn’t show it well, she worries.
“Yes, you’re right,” she murmurs, now only half-present. After a beat or two, she circles back around. “Well, how’s Fort Myers?”
Mom and Dad moved away a few years ago, selling our house in town and taking their chances on the East Coast. When they did, I bought this cottage—no more than an abandoned shithole—and turned it into my own sanctuary.
“Fine. I still don’t go into town much, but I’m sure it’s the same.”
I slide on a pair of basketball shorts and run a hand through my hair. Presentable enough—considering I won’t be going anywhere. Again.
“You need to get out there. I know your… condition makes it hard to socialize, but you need to interact with others. I don’t want my son turning into a serial killer.”
“Mom,” I groan, making my way into the kitchen to cook breakfast. “I’m not a serial killer. And I have Marissa. I’m fine.”
My mother once again scoffs. “Marissa isn’t even in North Dakota; she doesn’t count. And you may not be a serial killer yet, but secluding yourself like this will eventually lead to—”
There is a sharp knock at the front door. Three in quick succession, and then silence. I am now familiar with that knock; this is the third time I’ve heard it.
“What was that?” Mom asks, having heard the loud banging through the receiver.
“Someone’s at the door. Let me call you back,” I tell her.
“Who? A friend? A girlfriend? Oh, Row, are you—”
Another knock begins to sound throughout the house as I make my way to the front door, so I cut my mother off before she holds me hostage any longer.
“Mom, I love you. Call you later.” Then I hang up the phone. I slip it into my pocket before I unlock the deadbolt and open the large oak door.
Benjamin, torn so sweetly from my dream, is replaced in reality by Elijah—standing there in the morning light, as infuriatingly alive as he had been in my fantasies.
He stands before me in black jeans and a blush-pink button-up, his blond hair messy where it falls over his forehead and around his head in that same resemblance to a halo I saw the first time we met and every time I close my eyes.
Little curls spread vicariously throughout as if his genetics just couldn’t decide which way they wanted to lean.
That is the only thing that separates him from the version of himself that lives in my head. His hair is a bit curly in real life.
Those hazel eyes find mine, and just like both times before, I want to cry. I so desperately wish to understand why these emotions heighten and rise to the surface, only to course through me at the sight of him. How they can conflict and yet synchronize so seamlessly.
And then there is that nagging feeling—that longing that burns in the pit of my stomach and revolves around the thought of him.
“Good morning, Rowan,” Elijah greets, and it takes me far too long to notice the coffee he has extended to me.
How am I meant to see it when he’s smiling like that?
As if he’s taken the entire sun from the sky and swallowed it, only allowing its rays to warm the earth when he deems a smile necessary?
“Oh, no thanks,” I decline, staring at the cup. Not only do I not fully understand nor trust his existence in front of me, but accepting anything from him implies a level of familiarity I am not agreeing to—no matter how hard he pushes.
“No worries,” he says, brushing the rejection off as if he expected it and the coffee was just a formality. As he grins, two little dimples cave into his cheeks, and I find I have a great desire to lean in and shove my thumbs into them as I do so frequently in my mind.
I don’t, of course. I’m not crazy.
“Can I help you?”
Elijah nods. “Do you have time for an interview today?”
“No,” I answer, quick and to the point. He is fucking relentless. I’d admire it if it wasn’t interrupting my breakfast—
Oh shit. Wait a second.
I look down at my left hand, finding that yes, I am still holding the spatula I was utilizing before he knocked. But even worse than that is that in the heat of the moment—and trying to get my mother off the phone—I seemingly forgot to put clothes on.
As the fall breeze filters in from the outside, I can feel my nipples puckering now that I’ve become aware of their vulnerability. Elijah, it seems, notices this too; his eyes zero in on my chest briefly. He swallows thickly, returning his gaze to mine.
“Ah, okay,” he starts, voice unsteady. I can see the flush working its way over his face and into his hairline. “I’ll come back tomorrow, then.”
For some reason, I want to hear more of his voice. I want to see more of this flustered, unsure expression. I crave the feeling of this desperation and familiarity I have washing over me.
“Are you new here? To Fort Myers?” I ask him.
Elijah’s eyes light up, as if my asking him a question indicates taking an interest—which implies that he’s winning.
Which, to be fair, does imply I have an interest because I do. But it most certainly does not mean he is winning.
“Yes, I moved here this past weekend.”
Oh, wow. Fresh arrival.
“Oh,” is all I can manage, and he eyes me some more, allowing those big eyes to trace the lines of my stomach and waist shamelessly.
I can feel myself getting hotter; suddenly, I am vividly remembering the details of my dream last night—of having Benjamin spread out beneath me while I fingered—
“Are you sure you don’t have ten minutes to spare?” the temptress asks, and I shake my head. Not only to decline, but to ward off the perverted thoughts that are clouding my brain.
I could spare ten minutes to fuc—
“Sorry, Elijah—”
“Just call me Eli,” he interrupts
I sigh. “Well, Eli, I am a very busy man. At no point do I see myself having time for this interview, so…”
I nod my head in the direction of his car, making my rejection that much more obvious to him. But the guy just grins even harder, staring up at me like I’m the most interesting challenge he’s had thus far.
“I look forward to proving you wrong,” he says, and I don’t miss the way his pink tongue runs over his full bottom lip before he turns on his heel and skips down the steps of my porch, taking himself and the two coffees back to his car.
I watch as he gets into the driver’s seat and as he drives down the gravel road. When I finally turn and shut the door, allowing my guard to finally drop, I have to take a deep, fighting breath against the lust building inside of me.
Suddenly, my basketball shorts are a lot tighter, and my skin feels a lot hotter. But as I try to distract myself by making breakfast, I can’t help but wonder why I’m avoiding him so desperately. Why am I denying myself when he’s right in front of me?
Am I afraid to find that he isn’t the Benjamin from my dreams? Or am I afraid to find that he is?
Or could it be neither? Could it be that, more than anything, I’m afraid of letting someone in when all I know is how to be alone?
Fuck. Maybe my mother is right. Maybe there is something wrong with me.