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Day by day, like my dad always says.
“I’ll grab your suitcase.” He leaves the car, then opens the door and takes my purse. “Come inside.”
Damon takes my hand.
I swear to God this is what purgatory feels like. We don’t feel it when we die. We’re not faced with the consequences of our actions then. No, no. We’re forced to stare at our actions right in the face of the wild flames called life.
There’s no after—just now and this crippling state of mind.
We’re settled inside his home, where he keeps my suitcase at the entrance. I feel him when he walks toward me.
A part of me is done with Harvey. I don’t know what it is, but it’s probably seeing them together tonight that resolved it for me.
He’s better off with her. Maybe she can make him happier.
Damon removes both our coats, his lips pursed and his eyebrows frowning. When we enter his living room, I sit on the couch, leaving my phone on the table.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
I’m only now remembering I didn’t eat, but I couldn’t stomach food even if I wanted to. I shake my head, ignoring his piercing eyes, wrapping my arms around my legs.
I need her.
Why is this riling me up? I knew he loved her. I knew it. Is it having them confirm it? Is it finally admitting to myself that I must figure out my future without him around?
My body rejoices when Damon hands me a glass of water, our fingers touching. Only Damon could spring me back to life, with his little touches and fewer smiles.
I take a sip and place the glass on the coffee table. As soon as my back hits the couch, Damon brings me to him, cocooning me in his arms, where I so desperately want to be.
His dark-brown hair is wet—he must’ve showered before picking me up. He smells divine and looks it even more in his black jeans and tee.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“You shouldn’t keep everything bottled up.” The way he kneads my back slowly sucks the anger and sadness out of me.
“As opposed to what you do?” I feel him tighten in response. He keeps stroking me, and it makes me feel better.
“You should eat.” Damon cradles my face with the palm of his hand. I close my eyes, forcing my body to soak up every bit of him that I can before he acts like an asshole again. I still remember the night just last week, in this very room, when he told me in his drunken state we were done.
He pats my hip, forcing me to move to the side to allow him to get up. When he returns soon after, he’s carrying a plate full of snacks.
“You’re different at work versus here,” I mutter as he examines my small rose tattoo.
“Ihaveto be.” His thumb grazes over my finger.
The simple delicate rose stretches along half of my middle finger, with the stem of the rose shaped like a figure eight. I didn’t blacken the insides of the petals or the leaves.
“For your mom?” he asks, knowing I lost my mom to breast cancer at eleven years old. After a work outing, I remember the conversation we had in his car, when I learned that, at the age of three, he lost his dad, a firefighter, who died in the line of duty.
I nod. “Yeah. She owned a flower shop. She was obsessed with roses and jewelry.”
“What’s the story with this one?” He fingers a green-stone earring at the top of my left ear. “You always wear that one.”
I’ll never forget how he mentioned it during the same night we first opened up to each other.
“My mom gave it to me for my tenth birthday. Gia lost the other one.” I chuckle, remembering that day like it was yesterday. “I was so mad. So, when Mom died over a year later, I asked my dad if I could pierce my helix with her piece of jewelry. He said yeah.”
