I’m certain he’s broken more than a few hearts in his lifetime. My gaze shifts down to his fingers currently wrapped around the handle of a coffee mug, and I note the distinct lack of a wedding ring. He has most certainly left a trail of broken hearts in his wake over the past decade.
“We don’t want to rush anything,” Damon starts, “but I thought you might like one of these better.”
He gestures to the stack of journals and continues with his normal daytime push for me to consider jotting down any thoughts or feelings that I’d rather not share out loud. Which would be any thoughts or feelings at all. So far, I’ve only managed to sketch a bit and even that took its toll a time or two.
The first is a deep red and I’m quick to toss it to the side. Damon jokes, which he never does, teasing “next,” and forcing a small smile to my lips.
The second has tiny boxes rather than lines in the interior. It reminds me of graphing paper and I’m not a fan of it at all.
The last one is soft leather and my fingertips can’t help trailing down the rose gold binding. The leather itself is a pale white, although the pages inside are thick and heavy, and have a tinge of burgundyish, pale pink to them. It’s incredibly feminine and the very idea that this man bought it personally … well again I find myself smiling this afternoon with a bit of humor.
“We have a winner?” he asks and I nod, giving in to the acceptance of a new journal but not promising to write anything just yet.
“Can I make you anything to eat?”
Answering him with a “no, thank you,” the sputtering at the coffee machine hits me just then. As does the scent of, I think, waffles. From the corner of the island, maple syrup is visible as well as the butter dish.
“Are you finally taking my suggestion to eat here?”
Damon busies himself with his cup of coffee and glances over his shoulder, then says, “You could say that.” I’m not sure why, but that makes me smile too.
Getting myself comfortable, I shift up onto the stool. My slippers fall off one at a time, thudding onto the floor. My bare toes rest against the metal bar of the stool. With my elbow on the island and my chin resting in my hand, I wonder more about this man and his relationship with Zander.
“I really like this one,” I comment, tapping the soft leather.
“Good.” Damon’s gaze moves to the journal in question. “If I make you a cup of tea, will you write something today?”
A small laugh bubbles at my lips, and even through my headache that’s beginning to wane, I feel a sense of ease. “Is that not coercion?”
Damon’s rough chuckle only reminds me that last night I heard Zander laugh, only sort of like that. It was deeper, it was smoother … it’s a sound I’d like to hear again.
It’s typical for Damon to urge me to open up first thing on the days he’s here. Maybe he knows I’m most vulnerable then, when I’m tired and still waking up. I’ve never been a morning person. He says whatever he can to start conversation, occasionally asking me mundane questions and a piece of me wants to take him up on this offer and ask him more about Zander. At the same time, that’s not the game that we’re playing. For some odd reason, it also feels like a betrayal.
As Damon builds his case for a cup of tea being a worthy exchange for a page of thoughts, anything at all, I meander to the stack of waffles and make myself a plate.
I like Damon as much as I like Silas and Dane. They are protective, they give me space when I ask for it, they don’t judge me like so many others have throughout my entire life. But I don’t dream of them at night.
Flutters rise when I remember last night, and how I rested my head in Zander’s lap. Shivers threaten at the memory of his hand slipping down my hip.
“What do you say?” Damon questions with a raised brow, raising a glass mug with one hand, tea bag held in the other.
I take him up on his offer, if only to please him so that when I have the courage to ask about Zander, he’ll share with me. A little give, a little take.
And so I spend my brief day with Damon ridding myself of a migraine brought on by the hard sobs of last night, but playing out the events without any remorse or regret. With a heavy yet slim pen dancing between my fingers, the ink flowing across the thick pages of the new journal, I daydream of him, but write stories of my childhood. Of what I know I missed, having to grow up so young. But also what I wish I could take back.