Chapter 15 Fin
Chapter 15
Fin
Hey, let’s have a vacation relationship!
I blow out a breath as I stare up at the darkened ceiling and the woven fan as it lazily rotates. She might just have a point—none of that sounded romantic, but that was the point. What I thought she’d prefer. Obviously not, because it made no difference to the outcome.
The thing is, I want more than sex, but I thought that news would frighten her off. I’m not a raving maniac who turns rabid at the first hint of abstinence or blue balls. Despite my friends’ near-constant teasing, I don’t fuck anything with a pulse.
I don’t need to have sex.
I can go without it.
And I have done. Just not often.
But I’ve never tried to convince a woman another man is gay. Threatened by a fucking pastry chef? Whether he’s gay or not is purely academic—she’s a married woman!
And by that reckoning, I have problems. One thing is for sure, I have never worked so hard for any woman.
“ You’re a fan of the low-hanging fruit. ” The recollection is unwelcome, but timely, I suppose, the echo of Matt’s soft Irish lilt somehow softening the insult. Even if it landed true. Oh, I protested, but he was right. I don’t chase women. And I’m well aware of why, even if no one else is.
Rolling onto my side, I punch my pillow a couple of times, then nearly fall off the edge of the couch. Fuck, I can’t believe I’m here. My bed is huge—I would’ve made a pillow wall if she’d wanted.
I thought for sure she’d change her mind. Not for sex, although obviously I hoped. Which is pretty much all I am at the moment. Hope. And skin and bone. And dick. Which I’m trying to ignore right now.
I roll onto my back again and shove my hand behind my shorn head.
I wish she’d open up. I know there are places we could find common ground. Our childhoods, for one. Because nothing says soulmates like dead parents?
There’s something she’s not saying. Maybe about her grandmother? I guess she’s not the only one. In my case, I was fucked over by my grandfather. Did that experience make me the way I am? Probably.
And there I go, spoiling my mood again.
Hey, Mila, if we’re both fucked up, then maybe we belong together!
Rotating my shoulders, I tweak my neck, turning it this way and that, trying to move a little of the tightness out. I am single by choice. Thus far. And Mila hasn’t been single for some time. The circumstances are hardly ideal.
It would be one thing if she were to say that it’s too soon, that she needs to heal / smell the daisies / screw a whole soccer team. Then I wouldn’t be sleeping on the couch. I’d be in there, working as hard as eleven men.
She’d been lied to for years—I understand her reluctance. But I also get some sense of less than from her, especially in relation to her body. Her hot, heavenly body.
“Fuck.” With that groan, I kick my feet from under the sheet. She’s built the way a woman should be, which is ... any fucking shape a woman wants to be, in truth. But all that shit she told me, was she confiding in me or trying to put me off?
You’ll have to try harder than that, my delectable wifey.
She has money issues, as far as I can make out. I can help her there, because the only issue I have with money is what to do with the stuff. I’d offer to help her in a heartbeat, but I like my teeth where they are.
But there’s also something else going on under the surface. Some other reason behind her reluctance. It feels kind of familiar. Self-protection, would be my guess.
I just wish she’d let me in. I could try to make it better. Make her feel better, at least.
I lift my fist, and when I should maybe hit myself in the face, I use it to rub the sudden ache in my chest. I see her in my mind’s eye, her dress white and her eyes bright. Pen in her hand, the official in his lightweight summer suit standing behind.
I sigh and swallow over the sudden tightness in my throat.
It wasn’t a conscious thing that made me do what I did in that moment. I didn’t reason it out or weigh up the pros and cons. I just knew it felt right. That in the depths of my heart and to the very marrow of my bones I’d follow her to the ends of the earth.
I groan again, the visual of Mila in the ocean rising like steam. Hair, swimsuit, and skin slick, her nipples as hard as diamonds. Fuck, how I wanted to press my tongue to them.
How I loved watching her movements turn languid with her second glass of champagne during dinner. Her laughter a little throatier. Her words a little naughtier.
I know she’s into me. It’s in the way her breath holds when I touch her and how her eyes darken at what they see in mine.
I sigh again, and shift, my body taut with tension.
I want what I can’t have, and she wants what she won’t let herself have.
“It’s so fucked up.”
We’ve both been traumatized by life. We were both raised by our grandparents, and we both bear some scars.
We both like champagne. And swimming.
And neither of us can keep our eyes off the other.
We’re both excellent in bed. And so fucking compatible.
Hell, I’ve seen relationships start on less than that.
I bring my hand from behind my head, cupping my balls as I kick the sheet from my body, fighting to untangle it from my feet. I lift my cock from my shorts with a groan. One slide, and moonlight emphasizes the drop of moisture on my slit, turning it the color of a freshwater pearl. I drag my hand up my hard length, squeezing the crown with a hiss as I pinch the sticky bead.
I ought to be disgusted, lying here, abusing myself while on the other side of the wall lies the woman I want to be with in so many ways.
My eyes spring open at the sound of something hitting the floor. Heart beating hard, I lie in the darkness, my senses alert. Mila? I sit, trying not to groan, but I’m not twenty anymore. Can’t get a good night sleep lying on a fucking couch.
“Baba, please slow down.”
Mila’s voice. Other words I can’t make out, but I intuit the tone just fine. Distress.
A strip of light is visible from the bedroom door. She closed it, right, when she went to bed? I know she did—the thud a sign of finality.
Maybe she came out to wake me.
I swipe the sheet away, more concerned for Mila than I am for propriety, though I pause at the door. I’m not eavesdropping, I tell myself. I’m just concerned.
“Baba, please.” Mila hiccups, then sniffs. Tears? “I know, my darling, but you can’t come home.” Pause. “Because the doctor said so.”
I tentatively push on the door, my heart instantly aching at the sight of Mila crying, tears running down her reddened face.
“Are you okay?” I whisper. “I heard a noise.” It’s a pathetic excuse, but it’s all I’ve got. But I’m not leaving her. Not until I know she’s all right.
She points to the floor where a can of mosquito repellant lies, and she tries to smile. A terrible, beautiful, wobbling thing as she swipes the heel of her palm against her cheeks.
I step closer and loosen the gauzy mosquito net. I hadn’t unrolled it last night. Maybe I should’ve showed her how. I pull the swathes over the mattress as Mila continues to croon into the phone.
“I’m sorry, Baba. I’ll be back soon, back from work. And Ronny’s coming tomorrow. She’s going to bring you Turkish delight. They’re your favorite, right?”
The responding voice sounds sad—full of despair—as I shake out the netting.
“Baba, please don’t cry, my love. I’ll be home soon. I promise.”
Before I make to pull the sides of the net together, I scoot lower and take her hand in mine and give it a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my words warm against the back of her hand as I dust my lips across her knuckles. Fuck, I just want to make this better, but how can I? I couldn’t have guessed her grandmother was the reason she was reluctant to stay on the island longer. And if Evie had known, she wouldn’t have asked. Oliver, though, probably wouldn’t have given a fuck. Still, I feel bad—culpable somehow.
Maybe if she’d just let me in.
“I know, I know,” she croons then, “Don’t cry, Baba, please.” Then, “Oh!” Breath rushes from her chest in a relieved gust. “Thank God, Sarah. Yes, of course. Good night, darling. I’ll see you very soon.”
A pause. Gentle voices. An angry, unforgiving one. And then a burbling laugh and a different voice. “We’ll take it from here!”
“Thank you, Sarah,” Mila replies. “Some days she struggles to remember who I am, yet today, she not only remembered how to use her phone but she found my number too.”
“The mysteries of the mind. What time is it over there?” the tinny voice on the other side of the line asks.
“I don’t know. After one?” Mila glances down to where I hold up two fingers. “It’s gone two. That makes it about eight in the evening in London?”
“Cocoa time!”
“Please wish her good night from me when you tuck her in.”
“I will, my love,” the voice returns. “See you when you’re back.”
“Wait, Sarah? That other nursing home you told me about? I think I’m going to be able to swing it. I’ve had a bit of a windfall.”
Something pinches in my chest as it all begins to make sense. Fuck. What rich, self-absorbed assholes we must seem.
“Right.” Mila’s hand slides from mine and she covers her eyes while massaging her temples. “How long do you think before it goes? Oh. Okay.” Her teeth worry her lip at the answer to that. “Thanks for letting me know.”
The call ends, and Mila just stares at her dark-screened phone. Cicadas chirp in the garden. The bed creaks, or maybe my knees. I reach for her hand again.
“That was my grandmother.” She gives a shrug that hurts my insides. “Baba Roza.” And then she bursts into tears.
“Mila, darling.” I’m on my feet and on the bed, scooping her into my arms immediately. “It’s okay.”
“I know,” she says, swiping at her tears. “It’s just, Baba has dementia.”
“I didn’t know.” Because she didn’t tell me. She didn’t confide in me. But why would she?
“Usually, she can’t remember how to use her phone, but tonight she managed not only to turn it on but find my number too.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Not really,” she says, allowing me to pull her closer. “Dementia doesn’t work like that. It’s a thief, stealing bits of the person you love until all that’s left of them is a husk. I hate it. I fucking hate it! As if I don’t feel bad enough for not noticing how ill she was sooner. As if I don’t feel wretched enough that I had to put her in a nursing home after she fell. It’s a horrible place, Fin. But I had so little choice and even less time to find somewhere, because the hospital couldn’t release her to my care.”
I don’t know what to say. For the first time in forever, I don’t have a thing to offer—not a suggestion or thought. But the one thing I can do is hold her tight. “I’m so sorry, darling.”
“Mila, Mila,” she whispers, pulling away. “You know, all those nicknames you tried—you could’ve just called me darling .”
Using my thumbs, I wipe the rivulets of tears from her cheeks. “I didn’t think you’d like it.”
“But it’s my name.” She gives a watery laugh. “It’s what Mila means in my grandmother’s language. Darling .”
“My parents might’ve saddled me with an ugly name, but yours, at least, got it right. Here.” I chuck her chin and, reaching across her, pull a tissue from the box on the nightstand. “Blow,” I instruct, pressing it to her nose.
“You wish,” she says, pushing my hand away to do just that. “I hope these aren’t your masturbation tissues. Oh, God. Don’t listen to me.”
“Never grew out of the habit of a tube sock,” I respond.
“Don’t make me laugh,” she says, doing a little of that. “Thank you.” She balls the tissue in her hand. “For the tissue. And for the cuddle.”
“Anytime.” I pause, then dip to bring my eyes level with hers. “Is there anything I can do? I mean, I wish I had the cure for dementia ...”
“That would be so good. This role-reversal shit is hard. God, what am I doing? I should be at home.”
My heart gives a little pang at her desolate words, her tear-streaked face.
“I can get you a flight.” I don’t want to, but I don’t want her to be sad right now.
“I can’t. If I leave ...”
“I’m sure Oliver will—”
She reaches out, grabbing my hand. “Promise me you won’t tell him—I won’t risk it.”
“I promise.” I turn my hand under hers, linking our fingers.
“The silly thing is, she’ll be tucked up in bed now and likely have forgotten she’s spoken to me. I could be back in London and walk out of her room—just for a minute—and she’d forget I was ever there. She’d greet me with a hug and an admonishment for not visiting more often, even though she’d seen me just moments ago.”
“Shit, Mila. I’m so sorry.” Useless words, even if I truly mean them. I can only imagine what she’s going through.
“No. Being here is the right thing.” She brushes at her cheeks, her tone resolute. “Because I’m going to get her out of that place to a nursing home that can offer her dignity. Maybe a bit more stimulation. The home she’s in—the nursing staff do their best, but ...”
It all makes sense now. And it doesn’t make me feel great. “Can you arrange to move her now?”
“Once I get Oliver’s money—my fee—I’ll do it then. Hopefully, they’ll still have space,” she says, her tone less certain.
“You’re worried about timing, about the money coming through?”
“It’s fine,” she says, brushing away my concern. “It’ll all work out. It has to.”
“Why don’t I help? I can do that for you, for Roza.”
“There’s no need,” she says in that stubbornly prim tone I haven’t heard since before we got hitched.
“But you want Roza in a better place, right?” Low. But I’ll go lower. “And you might not secure it in time.”
“It’ll be fine,” she insists. Then rubs her lips together nervously.
“Let me help.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is not your problem! She’s my responsibility.”
But you’re crying in my bed and you’re wearing my ring, I almost say. But I don’t go with that, because the observations wouldn’t help anything. Least of all me.
“Then let me loan you the money, at least,” I offer instead. “For Roza. For your grandmother. And because I’m your friend.”
“We’re not really friends, Fin.”
“You know how to crush a man. A fucking loan, Mila. The world won’t stop moving on its axis if you let someone help you.”
“But it wouldn’t be someone . It would be you.”
“Ouch,” I say with a stuttering laugh.
“I don’t mean it like that, but things are already so bloody complicated. I can’t borrow from you,” she repeats adamantly.
I throw up my hand. “Want me to draw up a contract? Give you a sixty-day line of credit? Charge you interest? You’re not being fucking fair here, least of all to Roza.”
At this, she frowns.
“You know, pride is a terrible sin.”
“I’m surprised you can see my pride for your own hubris,” she counters with a glower.
“You did this for her, Mila. Let me do this for you.”
Cicadas and silence and dirty looks.
“All right,” she eventually says. Because she’s smart and because she loves her grandmother. “I’ll take you up on your offer. For Roza. And with no strings attached.”
“Damn.” I move my head slowly from side to side. “You got me. I was gonna make you my sex slave and everything.”
“Idiot.”
That’s me. I’m just an idiot for her. “Give me the name of the place. Your grandmother’s name and anything else you think I might need.”
“It’s gone eight—I mean, two. You should get some sleep.”
“I will,” I say as I stand and tug back the sheet before drawing it over her knees. “AirDrop me the details. I’ll go make a call. You know, it’s been at least twelve hours since I pissed someone off at work.”
I pull the mosquito net closed and swagger out of the room, against every physical instinct I have. Her red eyes, her flushed cheeks, the hair I want to smooth and pet. Her sleep-creased pajamas and the heat of her body as it touched mine. Touch, sight, smell, taste—all those senses want to stay.
My brain, though—my heart—they know I need to play a longer game.