Chapter 23 #2
I turn off the TV, needing to reduce the sensory overload in here. Respectfully, I don’t think Ms. Hepburn is helping Sawyer or Kennedy right now. “I’m guessing that was her favorite movie,” I say.
Sawyer slouches, hands in front of him helplessly.
Like he wishes he could mold the world with his two greatest creative tools but knows it doesn’t work that way.
“I was trying to do her favorite things, hoping to lure her out. But…nothing,” he says shakily.
“Maybe she hates me now. Maybe that’s why she’s refusing to appear to me.
Maybe I waited too long to help her, or maybe I’ve betrayed—”
He stops himself, like emotion has clenched hard on his windpipe. He hangs his head to his chest, exhaling one shuddering sigh.
I sit down next to him. Earlier this week, I survived a 9.
5 million magnitude earthquake on the ghost Richter scale.
So why is emotional intimacy so frightening?
“She doesn’t hate you,” I say, managing to keep my voice firm.
“No one could hate you, Sawyer. You’re kind and loyal, and you care very deeply for people. ”
Not letting myself lose my nerve, I reach forward and take his hand.
Slowly, Sawyer’s fingers start to close on mine.
The music suddenly shudders. Etta James cuts in and out, her winsome vocals skittering. I stiffen, startled. Sawyer does the same. His eyes widen, but he does not release my hand, nor I his.
When I feel familiar cold creep over my neck, I say nothing.
Sawyer speaks instead, holding my hand tighter. “I…I don’t know what to do anymore,” he admits. “I don’t know how to hold on to someone who isn’t here.”
He meets my gaze, his expression wracked. His eyes search mine desperately, like I’m the answer to his questions—or the cause of them.
“No one who loves you would want you to hold on to them forever,” I whisper. Honesty makes my words come easier now. “You have to live your life again.”
Sawyer breaks down crying so quickly it surprises me. His other hand, the one I’m not holding, moves clumsily to his face, like he’s trying to hide his grief with an insufficient grasp. Like he’s scared of the messiness of his own pain.
Impulsively, I lean forward. Sawyer moves to meet me. He presses his face into my neck, the now familiar chiseled lines of his features jutting into the softness surrounding my collarbone.
I hold him, letting him sob into my sweater as he clings to me, feeling at once helpless and like his last resort.
I look up at the ceiling, fighting my own tears, just wanting to make him whole.
Wanting to fix his shattered edges as he violently shakes against me.
He’s the earthquake, and I hold on tight.
When his breathing starts to even, he doesn’t pull away. He still clings to me. I exhale, and Sawyer nuzzles deeper into my neck.
I let him. I do more than let him. I feel myself lean into him, lost in the fragile moment. His hands are warm and wanting.
My breath catches when he drags his face slowly up my neck, his nose softly grazing my skin.
Etta James fills the room with haunting, intoxicating, devastating notes.
Sawyer is…I can feel him on the edge of something powerful.
Passionate. Reckless. What he needs, maybe.
What he wants, definitely. He shivers in my arms once more.
My heart hammers. I just want him to stop hurting. He’s suffered alone for so long. I know, somehow, that he doesn’t even realize how desperately he’s gripping me. He may be my earthquake, but I’m his shelter.
His face stops close to mine, his eyes closed. His cheeks are flushed. His sigh is ragged, and then—
Then Sawyer kisses me.
Only the faintest brush of lips. The phantom of a kiss. But it’s enough to send a shuddering sensation down Sawyer’s whole body while my eyes flutter closed, the spirit of something powerful and rogue reaching out in me. His lips are feverish, the temperature shocking through my whole body.
I feel wide awake and like I’m dreaming at once. Sawyer is kissing me. I want him to keep kissing me. I want to take his pain away, to hold him, to let him hold me. I sigh.
The lights go out, cloaking us in darkness. Etta James cuts to silence.
Sawyer withdraws instantly. “Fuck,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I…I don’t know what I—I’m sorry,” he stammers. He stands, his silhouette filling the dark room.
“It’s okay, Sawyer,” I rush to reassure him. His mouth only lightly touched mine, and still I feel my lips burning in this cold room. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” he insists. “It’s not fair to you or to her. Clearly.” He gestures to the shadows surrounding us. “Clearly she’s pissed. She just cut the lights. I shouldn’t have—”
I chew the inside of my cheek, restraining myself from pointing out it almost feels like Kennedy was giving us privacy.
Like she didn’t want this moment mixed up in Sawyer’s painful memories.
I remember the way she made her first manifestation with the record player when I clasped Sawyer’s hand. Warning me? Or encouraging us?
Another realization interrupts my speculation. “Wait, are you saying you haven’t kissed anyone since Kennedy died?”
In the darkness, Sawyer’s eyes fall to the floor. “How could I?” he whispers. “She’s still here. I’m so lucky she’s still—” He falters, unable to finish.
I hear what he’s really saying. The retreat in his words. The regret.
And I realize it’s better when I don’t linger in the lives of people who don’t need me.
When I don’t intrude on history I don’t understand.
I was right the first however many times.
I should have left as soon as I found him here, surrounding himself with the paraphernalia of his pain.
I shouldn’t have sat next to him on the couch he chose with his lost love.
Because now, I’m not only leaving Sawyer worse than I found him. I’m stuck knowing just how much more of him I want. And how I’ll never have him.
I stand on shaky legs. “You can’t be engaged to a ghost, Sawyer.” Then I leave him the way I found him—alone.