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But I'd felt a more vulnerable side of him, watching the slump in his broad shoulders and the way his reddish-brown eyes dimmed. I had wanted to ease that pain, to remind him that he is wanted, even if it meant stepping over my own boundaries and sleeping with the enemy.
“Sorry,” I whisper, but I'm not sure which transgression I’m apologizing for.
His fingertips skim up my back, leaving me shivering at the ticklish touch. As bumps rise on my skin in that way only he can do, he continues touching as if reading the manual to my heart like braille on my skin.
There's something so warm and reassuring about his touch, even though I know I shouldn't feel that way. We're still curled together in the middle of my bed, limbs tangled, heartbeats finally slow and steady after our passion finally eased. And with every touch, he brings me back to that moment of desire, even though I thought we’d sated that need.
“Relax,” he says, his voice a gentle command that my body instantly listens to. I melt into his embrace. My room is silent, except for the sound of our breathing and the far-off bark of a dog.
But in this quiet, safe space, I struggle against my own thoughts. I’m fooling myself. There's no future or happiness with Fredrick that isn't a facade. And any ideas of genuine joy with him that trickle in from the corners of my mind are just me gaslighting myself into a delusion that somehow, some way, we’ll overcome all that lies between us.
That’s just not possible.
I want to ask him if he thinks that we could be happy together, if this fake arrangement we've agreed to could ever become real. “Do you think you could ever love me?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
His hand stills on my back. “Is that what you want?” I can't read his tone, but I wish I could know what thoughts are running through his mind.
“I don’t know.” I do know; I'm just not brave enough to tell the truth. This agreement we've made is a cage that's going to lock me up... and from where I’m lying, it might be a life sentence.
“So, go to sleep and we'll figure it out tomorrow.” I sense that he's trying to say the world might look different in the light of day, and my feelings might shift from where they’re at right now. And he could be right. But what if he’s not?
He offers a dangerous comfort, filling spaces in my heart I didn't know were empty.
“We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” I whisper as my body relaxes, trying to drift off. His steady heartbeat calms me and brings me closer to dreams, where there is no doubt, and the only truth is the memory of how I’d felt about him before he up and vanished out of my life so long ago.
Before sleep claims me, an image of her angry face when I told her we were getting married flashes in my mind. There was something else there, some other emotion I hadn’t been able to decipher. Something that tugs at my attention too late as sleep creeps up to claim me in darkness.
I don’t know if I slept for moments or hours when a sharp rap at the door jars me awake with a pounding heart and sheer terror pulsing through my veins. I’m not expecting company.My heart stutters as I glance out the window. It's not quite dawn – who could be at my door at this ungodly hour?
“Stay,” Fredrick mumbles, possibly in a dream. But I'm already up, warm feet against a cold floor. Adrenaline propels me forward, and I pull on my robe and fumble with the sash before cinching the material tight.
The hardwood is chilly underfoot, and I wish I’d put on socks as I pad to the door. With a deep breath, I beg my hands to be steady instead of trembling as I turn the knob. As the door swings open, I freeze.
It's him. The man who shares my DNA but nothing more. His blue eyes - a mirror image of my own, but older and sadder - study me.
I want to ask him why he’s here, but his reasons don’t matter. He doesn't matter.
I push the door closed, but his boot wedges solidly between frame and wood, stopping me from shutting him out.
“Let me in, Lila.” His voice is so rough around the edges, so panicked, I wonder what his problem is. If he wanted in, he should never have left. That was his choice. His mistake. He can’t go back and fix that now. No, he doesn't get to barge back into my life. Not now. Not after everything.
“Or you could go away,” I say, the words all sass and loathing. He flinches, just slightly, and I wonder if any part of the father I imagined as a child still lingers behind those tired eyes.
“Please,” he whispers. “I need—”
“I needed a dad. Don’t you come to my door acting like needs matter.”
He lets out a strangled sound. “Lila, I’m-”
“Not welcome here. Get your foot out of the door before I break it.” I mean the words and our gazes lock, clashing in the heat of battle. But he’s not fighting. He’s begging. This stranger is silently begging me to hear him out as he stands on my front step like an obstacle I can’t ignore.
Fine. If he wants to talk, I’ll talk. But he’s not going to like a damn thing I have to say.
“Fine.” The word is as full of anger and hatred as I feel. How dare he demand anything from me?
I swing the door open wide, then turn to lead the way to the living room. But he’s in no hurry.
As I collapse onto the couch, I watch him move through the house. His gaze lingers on framed pictures of happy moments he wasn’t there for adorning the walls—frozen smiles, captured laughter, none of which he was a part of.
