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Chapter 20
Ali stretched as she woke, her body fighting its tight state. Pulling the duvet higher, her hand dusted across a semi-warm mattress, eyes flying open when she realized the space was empty, the shower running on the other side of the bathroom door.
Reaching for her phone to check the time, Ali saw that it was just after six, which had become her version of sleeping in. But she had fallen asleep early after their long but perfect day out in Dallas, releasing butterflies at Discovery Gardens and eating at their favorite Tex-Mex restaurant. Normal. It had felt normal—sweet, playful, and fun.
She ran her hand over Cornell’s pillow before turning and placing her hand on the nightstand. Her breath hitched when she remembered.
The nightmare.
Slapping Cornell.
Crying. So much crying.
Not one part of the night had been normal—the realization was becoming so frequent it was hard to imagine if it ever would again.
She sighed, sitting and looking at the empty place beside her with a frown, wishing Cornell would walk out of the bathroom, crawl back into bed, and touch her. Erase it. I need you to erase it. It felt so strange to be craving touch as intensely as she had been given what happened—when there were a few minutes of her life that touch was the stuff nightmares were made of.
Slipping into the bathroom, Ali brushed her teeth, wiping the mirror so she could see her face—a little puffy, but maybe that was just the norm now due to the random outbursts of tears and lack of restful sleep. Ali quickly rinsed her mouth with cool water and looked back in the mirror.
Cornell must not have heard her come in. In the reflection of the mirror and through the foggy glass, Ali could see the outline of his body—his light brown skin in contrast against the stark white tile. She turned around and leaned against the sink. How can he feel so distant when he’s only four feet and a pane of glass away?
Ali forced her eyes down to her toes, nervously gripping the bathmat, feeling ashamed for just staring. But she couldn’t keep her eyes off him, watching as he pressed one hand high on the wall against the tile as he leaned his head under the running water.
Biting her lip, she followed Cornell’s arm to his shoulder, then to his back. God, his back. It had to be her favorite part of him, which seemed silly considering it was part of his body she never spent much time actually looking at. But she had felt it—its broadness and strength, the abundance of tiny muscles that contributed to its expanse and power. Ali’s fingers twitched as her hands hung loosely beside her, eager to run across the broad plain with the tiny dips and valleys as they had done what felt like a million times before—soft brushes when she hugged him, passionate strokes when they made love, primitive scratches when they clawed into him while he fucked her.
Ali took a deep breath and shook her head, pushing off from the sink, hurt pooling through her when she realized the muscle memories her fingers were experiencing had become just that—memories. But when Ali reached quietly for the door, she heard it—the noise of Cornell’s shaky, heavy breath rose above the rushing water, the smallest whimper. Her head flew back to find him in the same position, his left, inked arm extended up, his right in front of him.
Cornell made the noise again.
Is he… ?The thought almost made Ali want to break down, that this whole ordeal had not only stolen the intimacy between them but also the ability to meet his needs, or at the very least, erased Cornell’s need for her specifically.
The next muffled noise Cornell let out brought an entirely new sensation across Ali’s body, a warmth that spread across her stomach and up her chest.
Enough of this. Enough space, distance, boundaries, and tears. What they both needed, what Ali could feel deep in her bones, was each other connected so deep that no bad memories or nightmares could ever reach.
She pulled off her pajamas and quietly opened the door. Cornell startled, peering at her quickly over his shoulder before turning away.
When Ali’s hands pressed against his wet back, she wanted to disappear right into him—the need was overwhelming, and she pushed her entire body against Cornell, her chest tightening and tingling against his warm, slippery skin. She stretched to place a kiss between his shoulder blades as her hands slid down his sides, her fingers gripping his waist, sliding forward.
“Can I help you?” she asked against his back as her tongue left her lips. Ali was lost in the clean taste, the smooth feel of his skin. It took her a moment to realize Cornell had grabbed her hands, preventing them from moving any further to the part of him she desperately wanted to hold.
“I’m not… ” Cornell squeezed her hands and dropped them, pushing his face into the stream of water and shaking his head, droplets landing along Ali’s cheeks. He stepped to the side, so she could move under the water. “I’m done. Shower’s all yours.”
Ali stood halfway under the stream, fighting collapse, when she caught sight of his eyes—red rimmed and hurting—as he moved past her to open the glass door.
Cornell hadn’t been touching himself. Cornell had been crying.
* * *
Ali didn’t know how long she stood with the water beating down on her. It could have just been minutes, maybe an hour. Shock anchored her in place, leaving her unable to get out or reach for shampoo, her hair becoming a semi-matted mess against her head. But the shock broke when the water turned cold, and she began to shiver. And still, after shutting it off, she stood inside the shower for a moment, afraid.
But this wasn’t the same kind of fear that had been keeping her paralyzed for weeks. This was a painful, deep-seated fear of seeing Cornell hurt—hurting—over her.
Her heart began to pound, her breathing short and gaspy. She opened the shower door and grabbed a towel, not making much effort to dry herself as she flew into their bedroom, frantically grabbing clothes.
The front door and Mowgli’s pattering feet let Ali know she probably had been in the shower long enough to cover Mowgli’s longest walk of the day. She threw on leggings, tugging hard to get them over her still wet legs, and fastened her bra. Grabbing a hair tie off her dresser, she attempted to smooth her half-soaked hair into a bun when Cornell appeared at the door with two mugs of coffee.
“Hey,” he said, and Ali could hear it, the trying in his voice. It had an edge to it—uncertain, weak, broken. Everything we aren’t supposed to be.
