Chapter 15 Casual #2
Sage actually manages to focus on the movie—which, again, is typically a feat in itself, but even more so with Theo lounging next to her just within reach.
But she can’t not pay attention to what’s unfolding on the screen, not when it twists something in her so tightly that it brings her to tears as the final credits roll.
She drags the sleeve of her sweater across her eyes, the motion drawing Theo’s attention. He catches her wrist, his head ducking to meet her gaze.
“All right, Collins?”
She tries not to think about the concern on his face or the earnestness that he infused into three simple words, because if she does, she might lose it entirely.
“I’m fine,” she sniffles. “I just … it was beautiful. And achingly sad. But beautiful.”
There’s still a worried crease between his brows, but he gives her a tentative smile. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
Sage can’t help but rasp an incredulous laugh.
She didn’t just enjoy it. Her thoughts are whizzing through her mind, a dust storm of creativity kicked up because the yearning she feels was painted for her across the screen, and it’s plucked at her deepest heartstrings in a way that reverberates throughout her entire body.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” Theo looks nervous, enough that Sage ignores the lines she’s trying not to cross and breaks his hold on her wrist only to interlace her fingers with his so she can squeeze his hand in reassurance.
“I am,” Sage murmurs. “It just … made me remember why I write, I guess.”
Theo merely swipes his thumb across her knuckles, and the casualness of it has the butterflies Sage has come to associate with his touch taking flight in her stomach. “And why is that?”
She leans her head back against the couch, her eyes finding the ceiling as she sniffles. For once, she’s not trying to avoid the question. She just wants to explain it properly. To get it right.
“I’ve read my favorite book at least fifty times,” she finally begins, her gaze tracing the plaster above them. “And yet I still remember the first time. I remember …”
Sage takes a stuttering breath, and Theo waits, because Theo is Theo. He doesn’t press, he doesn’t rush; he gives her the space she needs without making her feel like she’s swimming in it alone.
When she meets his gaze, his eyes are bright and patient and so, so blue.
“I remember feeling like someone understood all the things that stay jumbled up in my head and finally gave me the words to explain them to myself.”
For someone who relishes in the safety of the attention she curates, Sage often feels alone. Different. Like she doesn’t quite fit. Perhaps it comes from a lifetime of trying to fit herself into a mold that was never designed for her in the first place.
But then there was a character on a page who was saying …
Learn to love yourself through me. It will be okay.
It made her feel a little less like she was moving through life just out of arm’s reach of everyone else.
A little less like maybe she was crafted nearly right but somehow turned out very, very wrong.
A little less like she’d be searching forever for the words to explain the way her oversized heart and racing brain work, because someone has already done it, and that means somewhere, someone understands.
Sage swallows.
Theo waits.
“I write because one time I picked up a book and it made me feel less alone. And I think I can help others feel less alone, too,” she says.
She feels that way now. She’s no Van Gogh, and she would never presume to face the struggles he wrestled with in his own mind. But the artistic yearning? The desire to be understood? The ability to see the world differently and love it and hate it because it’s isolating until it isn’t?
That she understands.
And being understood in art—seeing yourself and your struggles and knowing you’re not alone …
It’s so lovely it’s almost painful, so cathartic she nearly has to prepare herself for each and every time she reimmerses herself in something that makes her feel this way, lest the cleansing rub her raw.
It is, quite possibly, the best feeling in the world. And the one she most wants to give to readers.
She turns to face Theo more, her hair staticky against the back of the couch. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why did you pick these films?”
There’s something nudging at that brick wall in her brain. Not a hammer, but something, nonetheless, trying to break through the cracks she’s tried to force since she’s been here.
Theo shifts, tugging their hands into his lap as he pivots to face her more fully.
“Well, you’ve already heard me wax poetic about Donnie Darko, and clearly you see the genius of At Eternity’s Gate, but the others …
I chose The Princess Bride because I love the wit; Little Miss Sunshine because of how it sheds a light on family dysfunction in such a real way.
Creed for its grit and its unapologetic emotionality.
The acting and directorial vision are incredible.
” He lifts a shoulder. “I guess if I had to choose something they all have in common, I’d say … passion.”
Sage … Sage can relate to chasing passion.
To letting fervor fuel you for no other reason than there’s something inside of you that needs to get out.
When she wrote the first part of Cleo’s story, she knew she was crafting something that would help her excavate her heart from what the world had asked her to bury it under.
That’s why it flowed so well—because with every word Sage typed, she grabbed the shovel and dug through the layers she had unknowingly buried herself under.
The expectations of her parents …
The need to fit in …
The desire to be loved …
… all because she was determined to reach whatever was at the core of her.
She threw her all into it, every single ounce of her.
But now …
Well, now she just feels like she’s forcing it. Chasing a deadline, racing against the clock, trying to appease readers, the criticism of the reviews she never should have read leaking into her prose. Cleo deserves better than that. Sage deserves better than that.
She deserves this: tears in her eyes, heart climbing its way from her chest to her throat, insides rubbed raw. She deserves the achingly beautiful pain of experiencing something—of creating something—that touches the parts of her that haven’t seen the sun in ages.
That makes her think even when it hurts. Even when she doesn’t have the answers.
And Theo … Theo deserves that, too.
She doesn’t know what that looks like for him, but she knows without a doubt that he deserves it.
Sage draws in a breath. Lets it out. She swears she can feel a piece of that brick wall in her mind fall away.
“I think that’s what I’ve been missing,” Sage muses.
“Passion. It sounds so obvious when I say it out loud.” Her brow crinkles as she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Like something I shouldn’t have been able to forget in the first place.
But suddenly there was this pressure and I just … got lost, I guess.”
Theo hums in contemplation. “People spend years caving to the demands of others,” he murmurs. There’s something loaded there, but he continues on before she can unpack it. “I’d say your days in the wilderness were quite brief, all things considered.”
“I’m not out of it yet.”
She doesn’t even realize it’s become instinctive to diminish her hope until she blurts out the words.
What has she done to herself? When did her drive, her ambition, her dreams, become so warped by fear?
“Aren’t you?” Theo asks lightly. His smile is soft, his eyes knowing. Something in Sage’s chest swells.
It feels a little bit like reading her favorite book for the very first time.
And that … terrifies her.
But she lets herself lean into him a bit more. Lets her grin grow wide as she takes in the hint of self-satisfaction on his face.
Sureness looks so damn good on Theo.
“I know what you’re doing,” she says through her smile.
“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So smug.”
“I didn’t say anything!” he exclaims, eyes wide and dramatic and innocent.
“You didn’t need to! It’s written all over your face.”
The next thing she knows he has an arm around her waist and he’s tugging her into his lap. Her breath escapes her in a rush, her palms landing flat on his chest as she tries to keep her balance. Theo tips his head back, his eyes scanning her face as he takes her in.
“I seem to remember you being very keen on this face just the other night,” he teases, his hand curling around her jaw. The pad of his thumb skims her lips, and Sage’s heart stutters in her chest.
“Bold of you to assume it was your face that was doing it for me,” she quips, her voice just this side of breathless.
“That’s not the insult you think it is, Collins,” he mutters just before his mouth finds hers. He tastes like red wine and a hint of salt and Theo, and Sage lets herself get lost in it.
The kiss is long and languid, as if they have all the time in the world. Perhaps here in this bubble they’ve created, thousands of miles away from responsibilities and reality, they do.
Either way, Theo takes his time. From the way he moves his lips against hers to the way he peels off her layers of clothes, to the way his fingers trace her bare skin—every bit of it is slow and measured and indulgent.
It’s enough to slow Sage down, to convince her to stay in the steadily building heat instead of race through it.
She sinks down on him inch by inch until she’s settled fully in his lap, and even then, she remains unhurried, her hips moving in swivels.
Theo tosses his head back, and Sage traces the column of his throat with her lips, and his hands settle lower on her hips as he keeps her movements steady and deep.
It’s intoxicating—gluttonous in a way she doesn’t think she’s ever allowed herself to be before.
It overwhelms her senses, makes her feel like Theo is everywhere, like every inhale she takes has a bit of him attached to it.
It lingers.
In the aftermath, when the glow of sex has them breathless and warm and tangled together on the couch. In her car on the drive back to the cottage with nothing but Noah Kahan’s crooning voice for company. In her bed, when she swears she can still smell Theo’s cologne even though she’s showered.
It lingers, and Sage can’t decide if it’s carving out a space in her chest to settle there or to leave it empty and aching by the time this is all over.