CHAPTER 13
Harvey
Two Years Ago . . .
Henrik threw me a house party for my twenty-second birthday, and I didn’t have the guts to tell him that was the last thing I wanted.
I haven’t been social since the accident six months ago, and he probably figured that this would do me some good.
Wrong.
Instead, I smiled, and drank, and smoked weed.
I guess it went better than expected.
Until I notice Gemma’s motorcycle once the guests are gone.
“What the fuck is her bike doing in the backyard, Hen?” I ask, perplexed.
Henrik had the audacity to retrieve and give back her dented motorcycle from the accident. As if she would ever ride it again.
“Calm down…it’s not like she’ll be riding tonight. Besides, how do you know that it was me?”
Do they not see me?
I can’t use my fucking legs!
Why on earth would she want to get back on that bike when she could’ve died?
The risks are way too high, and insanity has a price.
Clearly.
“Tonight?” I scoff, fumes coming out of my ears. “She won’t be riding—ever. And of course it’s fucking you—she’d never do this to me!” I say with a conviction I don’t feel.
“Harv…that’s not up to you, man.”
I look at my brother, and I can see the color vanishing from his face. He knows he struck a nerve, and I’m not comfortable with the level of anger I feel right now.
I want to take Gemma’s motorcycle and reduce it to bits.
I want to remove all thoughts of that life that we shared from her mind.
I want to punch Hen in the face for triggering these worries in me!
So I leave.
I wheel myself to my room as quickly as I can, slamming the door, satisfying the adrenaline rush a little bit.
I hear a knock shortly after, but my mind is too preoccupied with my anxieties. I see Gemma walk over to my bed, and I wheel myself toward it, right in front of her.
“Gemma, promise me, please .”
I see her hard swallow, and I hate the hesitation in her eyes. “I won’t get on it. I’ll take it to a garage or something in the spring.”
“You don’t get it.”
She needs to understand me.
I grab her hands, hoping to convey my desperation. “Gemma, babe, I swear I’d fucking kneel if I could. I’m begging you…”
Her eyes narrow, and finally she tells me, “I promise, Harvey. I won’t ride again—”
“Promise me.”
“I promise. Shhh. You don’t need to worry. It’s me and you—always. But you need to promise me something too.”
I nod, my jaw firming up like cement, wondering what she’ll ask of me.
“You need to promise me you won’t keep shutting me out.”
Her words break something in me. Because I’ve been trying, haven’t I? To smile wider around others, to put the focus on Gemma’s days instead of my troubles.
But it still seems like no matter what I do, it’s never enough. How can I be enough when I’m not who I used to be, who she fell in love with?
I bring my thumb to her bottom lip, wanting to make her happy. “I promise, sweetheart.”
She tells me to hold on as she heads out to thank Gia and her brother-in-law, James, for their help cleaning up before she tells them goodbye. Henrik probably left right after our argument.
Soon, she’s back in my room, and the atmosphere is filled with yearning for each other.
“Don’t talk.” I shake my head, trying to gather the crumbling thoughts inside my mind. “Don’t stop this. Just don’t say anything.” She nods, and I realize how long it’s been since we’ve fucked—the day of the accident. “Your skirt, take it off.”
The leather skirt pools at her ankles, and something about it brings me back to our first few months of dating.
She kneels in front of me, her eyes glistening with lust and desire. And yet despite seeing it with my own eyes, my brain refuses to register that she could still be attracted to me. After the accident, after losing muscle mass and looking pale from spending most of my time indoors, I simply can’t believe otherwise.
But she’s here, in front of me, trying her damnedest to prove me wrong.
Maybe she’s even trying to prove herself wrong.
She crawls to me and straddles me, her hands slithering into my hair. She kisses me slowly, and my hand reaches for her pierced nipple inside her bra.
We break apart, staring at each other, then we kiss again.
A low grunt escapes my mouth, straight into hers, and I wish I could take her right now and throw her roughly on the bed.
“I missed this—I missed you ,” I whisper, letting the drugs ooze out my vulnerabilities. If she rejects me, at least I’ll know.
“There’s no reason to miss this, Harvey.” She clears her throat. “You can have this, you can have me , any time you want. In any way.”
I really wish I could.
I nod, if simply to appease her, as she massages my head.
“I love you, Harv.”
“I love you too.” I kiss her to mask the part of my brain that’s telling me that this is temporary, that come tomorrow my insecurities will eradicate my high and take over.
So instead, I focus on Gemma.
I remove her shirt and pull off her bra. Then I knead her tits and trace her collarbone with my thumb.
“You’re so fucking hot, babe,” I murmur.
She leans in and whispers compliments in my ear before she finally reaches for my jeans—the moment of truth.
I still then, knowing I’m not ready.
“We’ll just see what feels good,” she says, and I know she’s trying to help me, but my anxiety has already increased tenfold, and I’m not sure how to bring it down. I can see the plea in her eyes, begging me not to fuck this up, to give her this one thing .
So I shut up and nod.
She unzips my jeans and reaches inside to touch my cock. Luckily, I skip boxers to facilitate my bathroom ritual. She takes her time, stroking me for a while, until my brain sends me signals that I want to ignore.
She continues touching me until I say, “Stop. It’s not working.”
She pulls back. “Alright. Let’s—”
“No. You don’t get it. I’m so fucking horny in here.” I shove my finger against my temple. “But my dick won’t get fucking hard.”
“Look at me.” She grabs my neck with her hands. “We’ll relearn each other’s bodies. For now, we focus on what feels nice, and kissing and touching. What do you say?”
I want to say yes. I want to give her what she wants and needs.
What kind of man am I if I can’t even provide that?
“This sucks.” I close my eyes, and I suddenly realize what the circus inside my head was all about. Because I can feel the warmth against my hand.
When I open my eyes, I see that she’s turned away, but I don’t doubt for a second that she saw me wet my pants.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me .”
In this moment, every ounce of blood in my body is laced with shame, my ego shattered to pieces.
“Leave, Gemma. Now!” I don’t recognize my own voice.
I’m trembling and shaking, and my high isn’t helping my train of thought. I want to rage and destroy my room, destroy my body, destroy myself.
My hands tighten into fists, and I bring them to my eyes, the anger tuning out everything else.
I grab a toy motorcycle gifted to me from my mom when I was a kid, and without even thinking twice, I throw it against the wall, satisfaction coursing through me as it breaks into a million pieces.
That’s me.
In a million pieces.
And no amount of glue or anything will put me back together the way I was.
And I refuse to accept that.
I refuse to believe it and live it.
A loud yell escapes me, and I’m not even sure if I’m screaming or crying out for help.
I exhale, grabbing the armrests of my chair to focus on something else, but in vain. As my head bows and I notice my jeans again, I’m reminded of what just happened.
I close my eyes, swimming out of the anger until I reach for numbness and bask in it like my life depends on it.
Because it does.
Some of us don’t get to live outside our depression.
Some of us only remain alive because of it.