Chapter 3 #2
He leans against the counter beside me, and I feel the heat of him through my clothes. I reach for another glass, letting my fingers brush his on purpose this time. I hold the contact for half a beat longer than necessary and glance up at him, offering a small smile—one I know used to work.
“I have something else that might make you feel better,” I murmur, tilting my head up toward him.
His eyes drop to my mouth. That tiny flicker sends a jolt through me, and I latch onto it like it might disappear if I don’t.
I step into him before he can think better of it, pressing myself against his chest. I slide my lips along his jaw.
My hands move because they need to. Over his shoulders.
Along his collarbone. I kiss him, trying to remind him that this is something we used to know how to do.
He kisses me back, but it’s careful. I don’t want him to be careful with me.
I want him to need me so desperately it rattles his composure, so urgently that restraint feels like a lie he can’t keep telling himself. I want it written in the way his breath stutters, in the way his hands hover like they’re afraid of what will happen once they land.
I want to be the thing he reaches for, not because he should, but because his body already knows he can’t survive the wanting alone.
But I’m not sure I’ve ever been that to Ben.
I wiggle beneath him as I tilt my hips, closing the space between us even more. I’m trying to pull any reaction I can get out of him. My fingers trace patterns on the fabric of his shirt. I follow down the curve of his chest, along his sides, hoping something will ignite.
I give him every signal I can think of. Every quiet plea. I deepen my own kiss, hoping he’ll follow.
But he doesn’t.
His palms settle at my waist, present but doing nothing more. He doesn’t grip. Doesn’t pull me closer. The kiss between us never changes. My chest sinks, frustration blooming under my skin. Desire coils low and aching, with nowhere to go.
Deciding to push more obviously, I guide his hand lower, showing him where I need him. Maybe if I push enough, something will spark. Right? Something has to give.
He stiffens.
The shift is subtle, but I feel it immediately. The warmth I’ve been chasing slips through my fingers. Ben steps back and gives me a small, apologetic shrug.
“You’re right,” he says gently. “I do feel a little better.” He leans in and kisses my shoulder, quick and affectionate in a way that somehow hurts more. “I should probably get to sleep. Early morning.”
My hands fall slowly, hovering in the empty space he leaves behind. I nod, even though my throat feels swollen and closed.
“Goodnight,” I say, forcing the word out with a smile that doesn’t quite stick.
The bedroom door clicks shut, and the sound lands heavy in my chest.
I stay leaning against the counter, staring at nothing. The house feels colder now. I press my fingers to my lips, tasting disappointment, trying not to remember what it feels like when a look alone makes my skin buzz.
I tell myself I’m fine. This is enough for me. I can work with this. I don’t need anything else.
But the lie doesn’t last long.
Out of sheer desperation and the vanishment of any willpower I had left, I push off the counter and walk to the guest room. I stop in front of the closet.
Am I really doing this?
Somehow, after all this time, I truly am right back where he left me.
The closet creaks when I tug it open, the old wood swelling just enough to resist. I push past throw pillows and a box of half-unpacked books. My hands don’t hesitate. They know exactly where to go, reaching toward the back, past a duffel bag and old purses.
It’s still there.
I pull it out, and the fabric settles into my hands. A wave of comfort hits me before I even look. Rhett’s old gray sweatshirt.
The one he gave me after that house party my freshman year. The night the temperature dropped, I hadn’t thought to bring a jacket. The alcohol, coupled with my glaring insecurities, forced me to step too close that night. I pushed the line he had drawn between us.
I wanted him to cross it so badly it almost hurt. And in one devastating moment of hesitation, I let myself believe his feelings might mirror mine.
But I was wrong.
I’m always wrong.
I sink to the floor with the sweatshirt pooled in my lap. The fabric is softer now, thinned with time. It’s worn in a way that makes my chest ache. My thumb moves over the stretched collar, tracing invisible lines, chasing the ghost of a feeling I can’t seem to find anywhere else.
I’ve tried. I’ve loved other people, let myself fall, let myself be known. I’ve let hands touch me, mouths kiss me, bodies press close. Hell, I’ve moved cities, built a life that doesn’t include him. I don’t know how many times I’ve told myself that time and distance would dull whatever this is.
But nothing ever fills the space he carved in me, and the insane part is I have never even had him.
He has only ever looked at me, and yet nothing lights up my arms with goosebumps or sets my skin buzzing the way his attention does.
Tonight, I felt it again, and no matter how hard I reached for something else, it followed me home.
I squeeze the sweatshirt tighter, letting the sadness press down.
I want the frustration to burn. And while I try and focus of the anger, quietly, a thin thread of relief slips in.
He’ll leave. He’ll go back to his life, far from here, and I won’t have to face him again.
I can fold this feeling up, tuck it into the dark and pretend it never existed. I’ve gotten very good at pretending.
I let the sweatshirt fall loosely into my lap and stare into the quiet.
I could lie and say I’m hopeful I’ll find that feeling with someone else, that someday someone will look at me and my skin will light up the way it does with him. But I’m a terrible liar, and hope doesn’t live here anymore.