“Don’t do that. Stay still… Please.” I ease back into position, letting him grab my hips.Ha—letting him. Like I have a choice when it comes to him touching me. He’s only moving his thumbs in little circles, all pressure gone. It’s so intimate and I have to wonder if he thinks so too. Friends don’t do this. Not guys.
I’d say they’re mixed signals, but it’s fucking Marco Borrelli—he’s straight as an arrow. He fucks women.He likes women, Jay!He can’t possibly know how much this is torturing me. He can’t possibly know that if he gave me the smallest indication that he wanted me, I’d be his. I’d never look back; I’d never want another.
Suddenly the image of Cora pops into my head—the memory of her radiance stopping my heart altogether. Maybe if I had him, truly had him, I could forget about her.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why are the two people I can’t stop thinking about, the two people I can’t have? One, always an arm’s length away. The other, missing entirely.
Marco’s knuckles dig into my lower back and I close my eyes once again, sinking into the relief—the only relief I can get. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. What were you saying about leaving the Army?”
He sighs, “I’m going to do one more deployment. It’s time I get out. I know I don’t belong there. I don’t want that to be my life. I can’t do it anymore,” he says, digging his fingers in deeper.
“Have you thought about what you wanna do when you get out?”
“I don’t know. I could work as a mechanic or in that field pretty easily.”
“Do you like that idea?”
He’s quiet for a while, but his hands don’t stop kneading my back. “Not really. I mean, it’d be fine. I know a lot about it.”
“You could be a massage therapist,” I smile. “I’d be your client.”
“That’s… not a bad idea actually. You think I could do this?”
“Absolutely. Let’s look into what you need to do to get certified.”
We spend the next couple hours looking into massage therapy as a career choice. There are programs he can enroll in now and get some courses under his belt before leaving for deployment. When he comes back, he can finish his training and be certified to work in spas and from home.
Which brings us to our next topic.
“I’m not gonna make much money in the beginning. Barely anything according to this,” Marco says, pointing to the laptop. “I’ll have my GI bill to use for education, but I’ll have to find a roommate when I move back,” he sighs.
I can see the disappointment washing away his new dream, and I quickly, foolishly, blurt, “You can live with me.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Dan is technically your roommate.”
“Fuck Dan. Let’s find a new place.”
“Jay, you’ve been letting me crash here off and on, you’re probably sick of me.”
“Are you joking? I love living with you. There is always lasagna in the fridge when you’re here,” I smirk, but inwardly I’m berating myself. Why am I reeling in my unrequited love to live with me? I’m a fucking masochist.
Thankfully, his handsome face opens up to a smile and his chest inflates. “Then… maybe this will work.” He closes the laptop and turns on the lamp next to him—the warm light infusing the room.
We talk into the wee hours of the night—about what kind of place we want to live in, what our daily routines might look like cohabitating. It both breaks my heart and builds it up with every plan we make together.
Marco brings over my next dose of pain meds and a glass of water. I’m about to take them from him, but he stands still in front of me as I sit on the couch. Staring at his hand, he jostles the pill around. “Did I ever tell you I’m thinking of seeing a therapist?” He looks at me and I shake my head. His jaw clenches, and he hands me the water and pill. “You haven’t witnessed one of these things before with me, but… If we’re gonna live together, you should be aware.”
His ominous tone sends worry panging through my body. I take my pill and a pull of water before setting the glass down and making room for him to sit next to me again. “What’s going on?”
Sitting down, his eyes train on his hand that’s smoothing over his own knee. “The Army will probably assign me a therapist once I admit this to them, but… I’ve been having these… episodes, where I disassociate and think I’m somewhere else.” He looks up at me finally. “It doesn’t take a professional to know I have PTSD. I get triggered by random shit. Usually loud, sudden noises.”
I let his admission sink in, but before I think better of it, I say, “Is that what happened to you today?”
His brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the way you acted on the field earlier… I’ve never seen that side of you.”
