13. Knox #3
Her hand hovers over mine, and she waits for me to pull away. When I don’t, she takes it and leads me to the couch. “Come sit. You look exhausted.”
I let her guide me, too tired and in pain to do anything else. It should be time for my next dose of pain meds. Maybe they’ll help me sleep away this nightmare.
We sit in silence, her hand still in mine, but even so, there’s a palpable distance between us. It’s like we’re both here, but we’re not really present.
“I can’t believe he bought a ring,” I say finally, staring at the cover of my mother’s coffee table book. “Do you think she would have said yes?”
Her breath catches. “I don’t know. Yes. I think so.”
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “You’re probably right.”
Hopefully, they found it. The ring…on him. A wave of nausea creeps in at the thought. Why the fuck did I bring up the proposal anyway? Stupid.
“He was so excited.” Her voice is clogged with emotion. “He kept saying he wanted it to be perfect. It would have been perfect.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
She’s silent for a long moment. Then she stands abruptly, pulling her hand from mine. “I’m going to head up to bed. I’m sure you need some alone time.”
“Ella—”
“It’s okay.” She wipes at her eyes quickly. “I’m just tired. We’re both tired.”
She heads for the stairs without looking back.
I sit there alone for a while, staring at nothing, listening to the sounds of the house. It’s calming to know exactly what each one is. The fan, Ella’s steps from upstairs, the air conditioning kicking in. If I listen hard enough, I can hear the ice clinking around in my father’s glass.
It’s odd, knowing that everything’s the same here, yet entirely changed.
I should go upstairs, take some more pain meds and pass out.
But I stay on the couch a little longer, staring out at the dark water, imagining the cottage where Sawyer might be, wondering if she’s thinking about Owen…about the proposal that will never happen…about the future they’ll never have.
Or if any part of her is thinking about me.
I close my eyes and try to breathe through the pain, the unknown. If I hurt this much today, I can only imagine how tomorrow will be.
I don’t want to think about it.
Eventually, I drag myself upstairs. Ella’s already in bed, facing the wall. When she hears me, she turns over, sniffling and rubbing her eyes.
“Did I wake you?”
“No,” she says. “You’re fine.”
“I’m going to get cleaned up.”
I shower, throw on some clean boxers, and swallow my pills. When I come back, and slide under the covers, Ella scoots close to me, almost laying her head on my chest, but I stop her with a wince.
“Cracked ribs, remember?”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
She settles against my bicep instead. We both lay there in the dark, quiet, probably thinking about the same thing in vastly different ways.
After a while, her hand travels along my lower abdomen, her nails tracing a path along the band of my boxers.
“Ella—”
“Please,” she whispers. “I just need...I need to feel close to you.”
Her hand slips beneath the fabric, tentative at first, waiting for me to stop her. I should pull away and tell her this isn’t what either of us needs right now.
But as her warm hand glides up and down my cock, I know I won’t.
Because she’s right. I need to feel something other than this crushing weight too. Anything other than grief and guilt and self-loathing from the image of Sawyer’s face when she pulled away from me.
So I let her.
And when I’m close to coming, I slide her underwear aside, and rub her clit.
It’s all so mechanical, like we’ve done this a hundred times, and we’re just trying to get off so we can go to bed.
“Knox,” she moans, her legs going rigid.
I close my eyes and try to focus on the moment. On Ella. On the girl actually in my bed.
But all I see is Sawyer. Her hand fisted in my jacket. The way she looked at me in that parking lot. And when that doesn’t do it, I picture her from before. Her beautiful golden hair falling over her eyes. The swell of her breasts, the curves of her hips.
Ella comes with a quiet gasp, her body tensing against mine. I follow seconds later, my release feeling empty despite the physical relief.
We lie there in the aftermath, both breathing hard, neither of us moving. When I pull my hand away, she rolls to her side. I think I hear her crying, but I don’t think she wants to be asked about it. Even so, I’m tired. Bone-deep exhausted.
I get up to clean myself off in the bathroom, staring blankly into the sink, avoiding my own reflection in the mirror. When I come back, her breathing has evened out.
Good. My pills are kicking in, and I can barely keep my eyes open, let alone have a conversation.
“Goodnight,” Ella whispers as I get under the covers.
“Night.”
But we both know there’s nothing good about any of this. We just used each other to feel something…anything. If I let myself linger on that for too long, I’ll feel even worse about myself.
The medication pulls me under, and my last conscious thought is of Sawyer. It’s always of her.
I dream of falling, and her hand slipping from mine, and metal creaking, and Owen’s voice.
I dream of all the things I’ll never be able to forget.