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He poured himself a cup and walked into the living room. “If you want to tell me,” he answered as he sank onto the couch, fiddling with my remote before settling on a channel.
“You don’t care?” I was trying to challenge him.
There was a flaw. There was something that was going to take him away from me.
Yeah, you.
I ignored my inner thoughts and placed one hand on my hip.
He set down his mug and stared at me with practiced patience. Did he know I was about to hound him about something neither of us could control? My constant anxiety and his constant understanding.
“All I care about is that it reminds you of me. Even when you aren’t thinking of me, it’ll always be there. In your heart and in your skin. That’s what’s important to me.”
“First of all,” I began, snatching the remote from his hands and straddling him, “I’m always thinking of you. So far, life has been impossible to go through without you on my mind, since the moment you bumped into me when I was seventeen. Secondly, I want you to want to know about my choice. I don’t want to be the only one who asked.” I didn’t want to pout, but it was happening regardless.
“Why did you choose those words, Blue?” He kissed my collarbone, a place I was beginning to think he rather liked, and whispered, “I’m dying to know.”
I struggled off his lap and grabbed a book from the pile beside the couch. I knew it would be there because I drowned in the beauty of it many nights. Pining and poetry go hand-in-hand.
After turning to the right page, I handed him the book and walked to my bed, peeling off my clothes on the way there.
Tomorrow, I would paint. Miranda hadn’t contacted me yet, but I knew I had a project to get a grip on. Which reminded me…
“Those paintings,” I said as I glanced at him. “What’s the story?”
He shushed me and pointed to the book in front of him.
I stood where I was, looking at him. He murmured the words to himself, and when his lips lifted slightly, I melted.
I was a handful, a crazy woman. But if I was crazy, what did that make him for staying with me? For loving me? After all this time?
Out of his fucking mind.
He shut the book and stared at me.
Time was never on our side. But now that it was, we were content to just look at each other.
I blinked, remembering my question. “The paintings.”
“It’s a long story.” His gaze never wavered, but I could feel his energy shifting.
“Tell me,” I insisted. I stepped lightly over my discarded clothes and sat beside him, not caring that I was only in my bra and underwear.
He sighed and sat back, interlocking his fingers and placing them on top of his head. His eyes were on the ceiling, and I thought I’d have to remind him I was sitting beside him.
“You left so suddenly you forgot your paintings at the high school. I took those home because it was too hard to leave them there. I already left you once. I couldn’t leave the things you left behind. And once I had those, I had to have what was at Tim’s place. At first, he wouldn’t even see me, and I understood. He blamed me for what happened to you, said that if I ever found you again, it would kill you. And I believed him. I thought I wasn’t good for you. I pushed you when I knew you weren’t ready. I kept thinking I would be patient enough, but I ended up pushing you and then pushing you away. Sure, I was a kid, but I made you think I could handle it and when it got too hard, I left. Even the night your mom showed up. It was my fault, what you did. I didn’t know how to handle it, so I turned away from you.”
I said the words I knew I was supposed to say. I knew he couldn’t shoulder all that blame. A guy should be able to turn away from his girlfriend without her getting wasted and almost dying. That I knew to be true.
Sure, he said he would be there. But I was the mayor of crazy town. Had he known that going in, things might’ve been better.
He might’ve gone on to live his life and marry Rachel.
Pain lanced through me at the thought, but it was true. I wasn’t good forhim. We weren’t good for each other.
“Don’t think that, Dexter Andrews. I knew what I was doing.” I grabbed his cheeks and he nudged my hands away, leaning forward, his shoulders hunched.
“Stop it, Noa. I’ve had time to think about this—years. I know you’re fighting it still, the need for self-preservation. You withdraw, and I can see your mind working. Sometimes I wonder if you’re counting the seconds until I’m gone again or how many steps there are to the nearest exit.” He faced me, his eyes shining. “I did this to us. You were right. And I don’t know what to do. Tell me what you need me to do,” he pleaded, his hands finding my waist and gripping me.
