Chapter 20 #2
She steps inside and crashes against me, tugging my face down to hers and frantically kissing me.
It’s horrifying that as soon as her lips meet mine, all the bad shit gets drowned out.
All the nonsense makes sense. My tangled thoughts and emotions retreat, smoothing themselves into something not quite so stormy and violent.
It should be horrifying, but I don’t know if it really is.
Honestly, it’s kind of… nice. Nice in a way that should make me panic, but it doesn’t.
Which should make me panic too. I shouldn’t be getting used to this.
I shouldn’t want to rely on it. I shouldn’t want it at all.
I do. More than anything.
I lose myself in kissing her until she pulls back to catch her breath.
She smiles at me, the most gorgeous smile I have ever seen.
She’s not pissed off at how I failed at sex earlier, left her unsatisfied, sent her home with a butt plug in without even letting her come, and then told her I’d text and didn’t.
What a fucking dick.
The worry that burned bright in her eyes is now little more than fading embers. “You were playing the piano?” The joy in her voice is as bright and beautiful as her expression. “Will you play me something?”
My first reaction is to say no, but then I find that I do want to. Not out of guilt for being such an asshole, I know that me playing anything, even the most rudimentary little song, would make Fawnie happy. I want to bring her joy. So much joy. More than anything.
She follows me into the living room, trying very hard not to gape at the house.
It’s nothing fancy. An outdated nineties bungalow with linoleum in the kitchen and beige carpet in the living room that has seen far better days.
It still bears the marks of all the old furniture that was in here, probably for decades, though Preacher had the club furnish the place before I left his house to come here.
“It’s boring,” I say.
Fawnie’s cheeks flush. “No. It’s nice. Very tidy.”
“I don’t have enough things to make a mess with.”
“Minimalism is in.”
I don’t correct her. She doesn’t need correcting.
I sit on the wooden bench and shift over, patting the spot beside me on impulse.
It would be weird if she stood and watched over my shoulder.
God, I used to lie to myself about being good at lying to myself.
I can’t even pretend anymore. I want nothing more than to feel the glide of her thigh pressed against mine.
I set my hands on the keys, but I look down after she shifts onto the bench.
She’s not close enough. She’s trying not to crowd me.
Makes sense, after the many epic meltdowns I’ve had with her.
I’m the one who spreads my legs with the guise of moving my foot to the pedals below.
I need to feel her pressed up against me.
I made myself believe for five years that I didn’t need human touch.
It’s been all of two seconds, and already, I can’t go back.
My stomach squirms at the sight of my denim clad thigh touching Fawnie’s ripped up black skinny jeans.
I’m barefoot. She has fancy combat boots on with lots of little spikes sticking out all over them.
The shoulder of her pink houndstooth oversized blazer grazes my bare arm.
She has a little black tank top on under it.
The soft skin of her flat stomach peeks out between her jeans and the black cotton ribbing.
I focus on my hands. What if I got out of my head for a moment?
What if I changed the narrative one thought at a time?
“What do you want to hear?”
“Anything.”
I like Bach. I know many pieces from memory.
I can’t play something from inside of me, something of my own.
It would be too much right now. I play, my hands moving without my brain giving my guidance.
They remember the notes better than the rest of me.
I don’t play one piece through. I pick and choose, taking parts here and here, whatever wants to keep flowing.
It’s not less intimate. Not with Fawnie so close, her leg brushing mine, the heat of her body so close, her vanilla coconut scent that should be absolutely overwhelming, but is always perfection, filling my damaged lungs every time I breathe in.
I can’t sit here and strip myself down and not give her full honesty. She deserves nothing less. Maybe I do too. The truth is, I’m so tired of being miserable. I could do better. Maybe I can’t fix myself, but I could fix a lot of things about myself and about what I’ve been doing.
I stop, wrenching my hands from the keys and tucking them between my knees.
Fawnie doesn’t even wait a moment. Her hands skim over my knee and land on mine immediately.
She brushes her fingers over my knuckles, then covers them completely with both of hers.
I’m all shaky inside. Buzzing with nervous energy at what I’m about to say, but there’s less dread than there should be.
I’m comfortable with Fawnie. She’s seen some pretty gnarly shit already and she hasn’t run.
I know she won’t. She’s a good person. She might deserve more, and I might need to work like hell to be that for her, but I want to.
I know she’ll stand beside me and pick me up when I fall.
It’s selfish to want her, but maybe a little less because I truly want to earn her.
I want to be the man who can lift his head proudly and say that I did everything to be at her side and be a good partner.
Yes. Partner. We’re doing this. It’s so fucking clear that we are. I have zero doubts.
I’ve spent years so consumed by bullshit, rage, and bitterness that I haven’t been able to get out of my own head to make a proper decision about anything.
I feel ratcheted up, wired, half wild, and weirdly exhausted all at the same time.
Fawnie makes a trapped sound in her throat that is so, so soft. She moves, standing in front of me, and then she sits down in my lap. She arranges her legs over mine, hanging them over the side. This bench is basically shit, but I’m able to balance us both.
I bow my head until my forehead rests against hers and let out a sigh that’s more broken than I thought it would sound. Her hands immediately come up, bracketing my face, protecting me, soothing me. They travel to the back of my neck and then her fingers play in the fine hairs there.
Her soft, slow touch feels like heaven.
“Sorry.” My voice is even scratchier than normal.
Fawnie caresses the gold chain, brushing her hand around to lift it out of my shirt. She strokes the metal, warm from my body, and somehow seeing her do it gives me comfort. I’ve done the same thing, with intention in the past, or absently.
It was Preacher who gave me the crucifix back in Ohio, just before he left.
His father had given it to him. At the time I think he was starting to question his calling, but that’s not why he gave it to me.
I guess it was a gesture, he knew how much comfort it had given him and wanted me to have it.
Stroking that worn, warm metal always somehow made me feel better.
I suppose it was the methodical habit that did it.
Another small thing I could control and focus on when everything else was spiraling out of control.
I swallow loudly. “I hate feeling like this. I hate being stuck and trapped and angry and hurt. I… want to talk to Lockwood.”
Fawnie seems to stop breathing, but then her lips find mine and she kisses me gently, with no real heat or intent other than to silently communicate with me her pride and relief and wonder at that decision.
There’s more. I’m worried I won’t get it out.
When she stops kissing me, the words rush out before I have a chance to lock them back inside.
“I’m tired of being ashamed. I don’t want to keep telling myself that I’m unlovable.
I don’t want to be unloved, or hard to love.
” I stare right into her wide, shining cobalt eyes.
“I’m sorry that all I do is push and push and shove everyone away.
I can do so much more than I’m doing right now to help myself.
I’m not a monster. I know that. I’m a person.
Not a very nice one, but so what?” I see the bright light of hurt pass through Fawnie’s eyes, with a thousand other flickering emotions.
“I don’t want to hide anymore. I want- I- I’d like… ”
Her hands are back on my neck, stroking little circles, making tiny little paths that make me want to gasp against her. I do shiver. More than once. I want her to keep going. To keep touching me. To never stop.
“What, sweetheart?” she coaxes gently.
I startle a little at the term of endearment, but don’t correct her. Fawnie lifts my hands away from her and laces our fingers together. She holds onto me tightly, a silent way of telling me that she’ll never let go.
“You,” the word is a whisper, but it’s loud in the room. “I want to be able to tell myself that I deserve to be with you. I… deserve is the wrong word, but I can’t think of one better. It’s just the thousand things that I could do better that are cluttering up my mind.”
“I’m here. There’s no special benchmark you have to reach.” Her lips part, but she changes her mind, closing them, and then she slides off my lap. She pulls me up to standing, keeping our hands locked together to assure me that she’s not pulling away. “You’re exhausted. It’s really late.”
I’m such an asshole. Time doesn’t have a lot of meaning for me, but regular people operate on schedules. In the daylight. With purpose.
You could learn to do that too.
My brain not being a total asshole startles me more than anything. “Will you stay?” I blurt, needy as fuck and even more pathetically, I can’t bring myself to hate it.
She smiles at me so easily, so openly, that it makes me feel shy. “I’d love to stay.”
“Will- uh- will Bubby be okay?”