“We can’t,” I whispered.
“Yes, we can,” he urged.
“No, we can’t,” I bit. I opened my eyes and caught his wild stare, and for a split second, I almost caved. I ran my eyes along his strong jaw line and took in the wild tresses of his hair. I scooped along his strong frame and locked my eyes onto his strong, dexterous hands, and my stomach churned at the idea of having him pressed against me again.
“We’re just… so different now,” I shrugged lightly.
“‘Different’ don’t mean ‘incompatible’.”
“We can’t,” I whispered. I cursed myself when I felt tears rise to my eyes, and I cocked my body away from him in the tub. My head hurt and my back hurt, and my heart hurt, and my soul ached. I wanted him. I’d always wanted him. Nights in Paris that were lonely while all the other designers were out drinking. Nights at home when I didn’t seek him out but still longed for him to throw rocks at my window. Days when I heard a funny joke or experienced a funny moment, and I wanted to call him up and tell him about it.
It wasn’t just love that makes a relationship work, and Flynn and I… we didn’t have nothin’ else but love. One of us would have to eventually give up something to be with the other, and I wasn’t about to do that to either of us.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“I’ll be back to check on ya soon,” Flynn murmured. His hand landed on my shoulder, and my body jumped at his touch. He smoothed his hand over the small star tattoo I still had on my left shoulder, and a tear slowly barreled down my cheek. I remembered the day I got that tattoo. It was actually a dare I lost to Flynn. We were walking through the apple fields on the edge of town, hand in hand while the winds of fall were blowin’ us every which way. I kept telling him I was fearless and bold, and he kept bringing up my incredible fear of needles.
I kept insisting that it was just a one-time deal, that cortisone shots hurt like hell and it was the pain of the shot, not the needle, that freaked me out.
He then challenged me to a contest: if I could successfully get a tattoo that he chose for me on the part of my body that I chose, then he would not only drop the subject, but he would take me to the neighborhood hoedown taking place at his parent’s barn that night.
Flynn had never been a dancer, and he promised he’d dance with me that night.
So, we went into the first tattoo shop we came to in town, and he picked out this little black star. It wasn’t much-- no bigger than the pad of Flynn’s thumb-- but at the time it felt like I was getting an entire back tattoo. I remembered biting into his arm while the man traced it onto my shoulder, and I suddenly realized in that very moment why the tattoo artist tried to talk me out of getting it right on my shoulder.
Because it fucking hurt.
Flynn took me to the hoedown that night and tripped over his feet the entire time. We actually ended up just swaying in the corner for the rest of the night while we smiled and talked in our own little world, and that was the first night Flynn, and I would have sex with one another.
It was a night I’d never forget, but the memories came rushing back when I felt Flynn rub his thumb over that tattoo on my shoulder.
But before I came to from my memories, I heard the bathroom door quietly click shut, and I was left alone to silently bathe in my tears.
Chapter 13: Flynn
Every single time I did something, there was always a ‘linger.’ A lingering stare, or a lingering touch. A lingering smile or a lingering warmth. Every time I was around Chelsea, I felt this drastic pull to her being, and when the ‘linger’ became too long, she pulled back. I could see it in the way her skin blushed where I touched it, and I could hear it in her voice when it involuntarily got smokier when I was around. She wanted me as much as I wanted her, but she denied every chance I asked for when it came to talking with her.
I brought her cabbage soup and slowly worked her up to solid foods, and after the first week of her recuperation, she was eating my homemade macaroni and cheese. I ran her baths every evening and made sure to keep her favorite bath salts in stock, and whenever she started racking up dirty towels and laundry, I made sure to wash and dry them with fabric softener so they would be comfortable against her skin when she slept. Her body was still tired, and we were still changing bandages on her head, but little by little I saw the Chelsea I remembered emerge.
I always reminded her that she needed assistance walking down the stairs and that we could always watch a movie in her room, and by the time the movie was finished she was always slumped over into my lap and dead asleep in my grip. I watched her breaths rise and fall numerous times over the course of that first week, and studying her up close only added to the beauty I saw in her face. Her light crow’s feet that were emerging due to stress only added to the wondrous time etched on her face, and her skin was even softer than I imagined. For all the times I’d woken up alone, and without her, I made sure to be there-- holding her close and keeping her safe-- for whenever she woke up from those naps.
A part of me wanted to watch her stretch and groan with sleep, and a part of me didn’t want her to feel as lonely as I felt whenever I woke up alone. Even if she didn’t think I deserved better than that, I knew she did.
“You hungry?” she would croak.
“Whatcha in the mood for?” I’d smile.
She’d throw out a few suggestions that would make me chuckle: steak and potatoes, lobster and noodles, hibachi stir fry and a stiff drink. But, we’d always settle on something easier for her stomach, like soup or rice and beans or the occasional reheated cabbage soup broth.
“It’s just so good,” she’d gulp.
I couldn’t help but watch her lips wrap around those glasses and that bowl. She was so beautiful, even in her bandaged state, and it killed me to think that she was in that kind of danger without me around. It was no one’s fault, and Lord knows I don’t blame anything but the snake for it, but I had come within millimeters of losing Chelsea, and the only thing it did was make me pay attention to her more.
Like when her hips swayed when she walked or when her hair billowed when she turned around.
Hell, she even looked graceful puking up her guts in my toilet whenever she’d turn around and billow her hair too fast.
But one night, I saw it in her eyes. One night I rushed into her room because I heard her calling out for me and thrashing around, and when I busted into her room, she was half-naked and tossing around in her covers. She was having a nightmare, and I sat on the edge of her bed, desperate to get her to stop moving around so damn much. She still had a concussion from what the doctor said when he had come by the day before, and strenuous movements were still out of the picture.