Chapter 7 #3
She moved forward into my embrace, wrapping her arms around my waist. Her cheek pressed against my chest, and I kissed her head before resting my chin on top of it. It felt so fucking good to hold someone like that—protectively, a little possessively, almost as if she was mine.
“You deserve all the nice things,” I told her. “What the universe was telling us tonight is that maybe going at each other while we were supposed to be washing your mother’s most fragile dishes wasn’t the best idea we’ve ever had.”
She laughed a little, the sound muffled against my shirt. “Maybe not.”
“And maybe what we should do is just . . . slow down. Make sure we know what we’re doing. Mistakes—and accidents—happen when people get careless and move too fast.”
She looked up at me. “So the universe was giving us a speeding ticket?”
“More like letting us off with a warning.”
She sighed, replacing her cheek against my chest. “You’re probably right.”
I didn’t want to let her go, so I didn’t. I kept talking, stroking her back. “I just don’t want to do something that . . . can’t be undone,” I told her. “Something that seems like a good idea in the moment, but turns out to be wrong for everyone.”
“I know. I don’t want that either.”
“I love having you in our lives, Chey. That makes this complicated. If I only had to think about what I want right this second, believe me—it would be so easy.”
She laughed a little, although it was a sad kind of laugh, tinged with regret for what couldn’t be. “Yeah.”
I stopped moving my hand and pulled her even closer. Her body was soft and warm, and I’d never wanted anyone so badly. “So fucking easy.”
In my arms, her body stilled, and she inhaled, like she needed to breathe in enough of me to last her a while. “Can I ask you something?” Her voice was quiet.
“Anything.”
Another deep breath. “Do you ever see things being different for you? I mean, do you ever see a juncture in your life where you might feel differently about . . . about letting someone in?”
I knew what she meant, and I wanted so fucking badly to be able to offer her something—anything—that would give her hope.
But I couldn’t, not without sugarcoating the truth at best and lying at worst. And Cheyenne deserved so much better.
Why should she hang around waiting for me to change my mind about getting involved in a serious relationship—which might never happen anyway—when she could have everything she wanted if she moved on?
I swallowed hard, and instead of answering her question, I told her a story.
“When Mariah was about five, I made her a promise. She asked me if I was ever going to get married again and leave her behind, and I said no. Apparently, someone at school whose parents were divorced had been talking about their dad getting remarried and moving away to have a new family—it scared her.”
“Poor thing.”
“Anyway, I promised her that was never going to happen to us. That’s when she told me she likes that I wear my wedding ring. I think it reassures her.”
“Of course.”
“I thought she’d forgotten all about that conversation we had back then, but last year—this was when I asked you for a recommendation for a therapist—my mom was cleaning her room and found this letter she’d written to me but never showed me.”
Cheyenne tilted her head back and met my eyes. “What was in it?”
“A lot of things—questions about Trisha, about her death, wondering if she was to blame, wondering if somehow there had been a mistake and her mom wasn’t really gone.
” I shook my head, my heart breaking all over again.
“Again, she expressed her fear that she was going to lose me—either to an accident or another family. She described this nightmare that she has often, in which she wakes up one morning and I’m just gone.
She’s alone in the house, and she realizes that everything I’ve said has been a lie—I did leave her. ”
“Oh, Cole.” Her eyes grew shiny. “I’m so sorry. Did the therapist help?”
“Yes. Eventually, the therapist got Mariah talking about her fears, even about the letters she wrote but never sent. Apparently it’s healthy and normal, functioning sort of like a diary. A safe place to express her feelings.”
“That makes sense. Did she ever talk to you about what was in the letters?”
“No. And I didn’t want to confront her with what I knew because it felt wrong—like a violation of her privacy.
But it also tore me up inside. I want her to know she’ll never lose me.
” My chest grew tight. “When I brought her home from the hospital, I set my feelings aside and made a promise to her and to myself that I’d give her all I had.
I’d be the best father I could. I’d go above and beyond to protect her, even if it continued to mean setting my feelings aside. ”
Cheyenne smiled sadly. “You can’t get involved in anything that would hurt or scare your child. I understand.”
Knowing I had to let her go, I kissed her forehead and released her. “You’re one in a million, Cheyenne. And you deserve the guy who can put you first, give you all the nice things, and never let you down.”
She sniffed. “Ha. Does that guy exist?”
“Yes. And someday I will probably kick myself for not saying it’s me.” I cradled her face in my hands. “But I’ll always be here for you.”
She looked away, but not before a tear slipped down her cheek. “Thanks.”
I dropped my arms, feeling like the biggest dick on the planet. How had I fucked this up? A few minutes ago, we’d been laughing.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said, adjusting her dress and then her hair. “I can finish up on my own.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. I should probably just get it done without any distractions.”
“I understand. I’ll let myself out.”
“Okay, thanks.” She offered me a half-smile and turned toward the sink, and it took every ounce of strength I had not to wrap my arms around her again.
I was walking away from her when she called out to me.
“Cole, wait.”
I turned. “Yeah?”
“Your ring. You forgot it.” She came toward me, holding my wedding band in soapy fingers.
“Oh.” Shocked, I took it from her and slipped it on. “Thanks.”
Her smile was forced. “No problem. ‘Night.” She faced the sink again.
I walked out of the kitchen, wishing I could flip the dining room table on my way to the front door.
Ten minutes later, I got into bed with the scent of her still on my hands and in my head.
Don’t do it, I scolded, as my fingers stole beneath the waistband of my boxer briefs.
She deserves more than starring in your adolescent fantasies, I thought, gripping my swollen cock.
She deserves someone who can give her what she wants, just like you said, I told myself, slipping my flesh through my palm.
The more you think about her like this, the more you want her like that.
And you can’t have her, I repeated silently as I worked myself into a frenzy, fucking my fist like I wished I could fuck her.
You can’t have her.
You can’t have her.
You can’t have her.
I exploded in a hot rush of fury and desperation and desire, agonizing that there was no way to be two men at once, to keep my promises and have her to myself.
Nothing seemed fair.