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Free of worries.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I warn him. “So you can be with Abby, but I can’t hang with Henrik?”
“Abby’s a client.”
“Who wants to fuck you,” I say as I make my way to the couch, refusing to let him dampen my mood. I finish my slice of pizza, watching him sit near me.
“I’d never touch another woman.” His words soothe me. We might be able to work through it if he’s acknowledging this. “Let’s get you to bed, Gemma.”
“Only if you sleep with me.”
We head upstairs and I land in my bed, waiting for him, but he doesn’t follow me. Instead, through sleepy eyes, I see him hover over me, pushing my hair behind my ear. He moves away to drape his blazer over the back of my chair.
“You’ll stay the night? You won’t leave?”
“I’m here. Now sleep.”
I nod, wishing I could hold his hand, wishing I could kiss him. So, I tell him my deepest wish. “I love you, Damon. Come back to me.”
Damon left.
The scent of his cologne lingered this morning, but he wasn’t there.
When I arrive at work, I feel better than the last few days.
Maybe because I all but remember him telling me he wouldn’t touch another woman. It gives me hope. Hope that there’s still an us. Hope that we can overcome this.
The entire day goes by, and he doesn’t show up. I text him, asking if everything is okay, but he doesn’t answer.
Which is why I drive to his house, to ensure he’s okay. When Damon lets me in and I see that he’s drunk, a glass dangling from his hand, real fear grips my insides.
This is exactly what ruined us last time—drunk Damon. When I’m under the influence, I want him closer to me, while Damon prefers pushing me away.
Still, I’m not here for a fight. I just want to make sure he’s all right, then I’ll leave.
He already left me. What more can he possibly do or say?
“What? I can’t haveone dayoff?” He shakes his head, a bitter laugh resonating from him. “If I recall, you were high last night—with anotherman.”
“Damon. What’s wrong?”
I walk to his living room and remove my coat, throwing it over the couch. He hungrily eyes my black leather skirt, tipping his head back to pour the rest of the amber liquid in his mouth while I sit on the couch.
Then he takes the glass and chucks it against the wall, far away from me.
What the hell . . .
The glass breaks in several pieces, and something that looks a lot like regret passes through his beautiful eyes.
“That fuckingbitch!” He clutches his hair as if he’s hoping it’ll calm the storm bristling through him. He looks lost. So, so lost.
And I don’t know if he wants to be found tonight.
“I loved her ... and she cheated on me!”
Tears brim in the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill. I keep it together, forcing myself to stay rooted on the couch. I can’t provoke him, can’t invade his space, or he’ll push me further away.
So, I settle for listening.
