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My patience is running thin, dissipating as the days pass by, all merely blending into a sea of blandness.
“Harvey . . .”
I’m talking to you. Why do you do this to me?
I want to scream like a banshee. It hurts even more to get a taste of what could be only to have it slip away from me.
“What?”
I take a deep breath. “What was that about? Don’t ignore me,” I whisper and move forward, closer to him in his seat. Our faces are so close, my lips are tingling, coaxing me to press against his. I try to remember how they felt, but it’s been too long.
My breathing accelerates; my heart races rapidly against my chest. I lean even closer, as if tempting my luck. I can feel his breath shadowing my own.
“What do you want me to say, Gemma?”
I use reverse psychology. “Why say all those things in there if you don’t mean them?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Who says I don’t mean it? Everyone knows you’re beautiful.”
I close my eyes, then open them and hold his stare. Maybe talking won’t do much. Maybe it’s a waste of time. Maybe it’s time we touch,feel.
I bring my lips near his. “You look so hot in your suit.”
When I press my lips over his, the warmth feels like silk. My body is waking up, the simple touch stirring every nerve on its way down to my pussy.
My fingers weave through his hair like I used to. I want his hands on me, all over my body. I want him to lose control, to let the old Harvey out. But that’s pushing limits. That’s asking for more than he can probably give me right now.
I lower my hands and tightly hold on to his dress shirt, as our tongues finally meet.
It feelssogood.
Until he’s pulling away, and I want to stop him as defeat courses my veins.
“Harv . . . why do you keep stopping? Talk to me . . .”
He releases a shaky breath and opens the car door. Then he gently pushes me back so he can take his chair from the backseat and unfold it on the ground next to the car before swiftly adding the wheels and the seat cushion.
He’s going to leave the car. He’ll ignore me. Again.
I say his name, in the smallest whisper, as my fingers touch my lips. The tip of my tongue feels like it went through six levels of fire.
“Let it go,” he says simply, and he’s out.
I’m breaking.
I’m breaking, and I don’t have a way out.
I’m trapped in my own graveyard, my happiness buried so low that a shovel couldn’t locate it. And every blow I get from him pushes me further down from who I was and who I want to be.
My heart, which was full of hope a mere minute ago, is now shriveled inside me, and a painful numbness slices through me.
This is it—the last straw.
I don’t wait for him this time. I close the door behind me and lock the car when I know he’s done taking out his stuff. Then I stomp toward our house, leaving the door open for him. I throw my keys on the counter, remove my coat and heels, and head to my room.
I don’t even take off my makeup. I don’t clean myself.
When your life is crumbling and in shambles, the best way out is sleep.
