“I’m gonna go in here and run you a bath. Figured you’d wanna clean up, but standing up in a shower probably won’t help nausea.”
“Probably not,” I responded.
I heard him retreat into the bathroom and turn on the water, and I took the chance to open my eyes. The room was still spinning a bit, but my head wasn’t pounding, so I swung my legs over the couch and tried to stand.
“Hold on a second, Chelsea,” Flynn warned. “Lemme help.”
I felt his arm snake around my waist, and his body felt so strong against mine. Images of his lips caused me to shiver into him, and for the first time since that night in the trailer, he pulled me close.
“Let’s take it slow,” he murmured lowly.
We made our way to the bathtub, and he sat me on the edge, and it was sweet how he closed his eyes to I could get out of my clothes. He held onto my legs so I wouldn’t fall anywhere, and when it came time to take my pants off, he raised up his hands and held onto my shoulders. Without opening his eyes once, he helped me into the bath, but when he opened his eyes, I saw something that frightened me.
I saw a question rolling around, and Flynn was never one to censor himself.
“I wanna be with you, Chelsea,” he said lowly.
I sighed and closed my eyes before I sank into the bubbles. Flynn was taking wonderful care of me, but I should’ve seen this statement coming.
“Flynn, we can’t,” I whispered.
“Why not?”
“Because we just can’t,” I groaned.
“Look. Ya left me, and I get that. But ya came back, and that’s a thing that happened. Ya don’t go knockin’ on someone’s trailer and experience what we did without feelings behind it. I care for you, Chelsea. I never stopped.”
His words wounded me to my core. My entire body buzzed for him, and something inside of me wanted to tug him into this bathtub and hold him close amidst the hot water and the soap suds. But, it wouldn’t work. I know I’m a country girl at heart, but a man like him doesn’t care about fashion and a woman like me doesn’t live where rodeos are constantly a thing.
Not if you want a career in fashion, that is.
“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.