Alcohol had lowered my inhibitions and had made me bold. It’d convinced me to walk over to her table, to make my move. To finally pursue the woman I should have chosen to begin with. Two hours and over a half dozen more beers later, I was dragging her to the back storage closet, barely able to walk a straight line at that point. But I was desperate for her. I needed to kiss her. I recalled a dark room. How her curves felt in my hands. She smelled like heaven, her skin soft and silky. The taste of her orgasm honey-sweet on my tongue. She had wanted me, too. She said yes. I remember how good it felt inside her. Like coming home, warm and welcoming. I wasn’t alone anymore. She’d filled those gaping holes inside me.
Then, it’d all changed. Something Douglass had said flicked a switch, and my intoxicated brain distorted reality, melding past and present together, confusing me. I’d thought she was Amelia. I’d panicked. I was enraged. At her. At myself. I was disgusted. What the hell was wrong with me? How could I touch Amelia again after what she did? How could I fuck Amelia, thinking she was Douglass? Everything after that was fuzzy.
I gently lower Douglass to the bed. Her face is puffy and pale from crying, but no less heart-stopping in its beauty. As carefully as I can, I slip her shoes and socks off. Her only movement is a slight flinch at my touch, and it breaks my heart.
Bending over her, I feather a tender kiss to her forehead, and she sighs, the pinched expression furrowing her brow and mouth lessening a little. Her bangles clink as she shifts to her side. In the dim moonlight, I can barely make out the scar, but I know it’s there.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I made her do that.
I wasn’t there for her. I’m no better than the bio dad I hate.
I failed Douglass in every way a man can fail a woman.
I feel like I’m dying inside. Like every somatic cell inside my heart and lungs is collapsing in on itself until there is nothing left. Yet, my heart still beats, and my lungs still draw in oxygen.
Taking my phone out of my side pocket, I toe off my shoes and undress but leave my jeans on, then pick up her journal off the floor and crawl into bed next to her.
Me: Something came up. Not coming home tonight.
It’s the middle of the night, but I know Harper is awake, more than likely painting. She has trouble sleeping, a side effect of her PTSD from what she went through. The only time she can sleep through the night is when Bennett is home. He keeps her nightmares at bay.
Harper: Hopefully this one doesn’t look like a burned carrot.
Her response pisses me off, but then again, from my past actions, what other conclusion would she come to? I really am a fuck up.
Harper: Just kidding. You still at Douglass’s? Should I start celebrating?
Celebrating? That would be a hell no. Nothing I learned tonight is cause for celebration.
Me: We talked. She fell asleep. Going to crash here tonight. Try and get some rest. Will touch base with you in the morning.
I turn my phone off when Douglass thrashes a bit, like she’s fighting demons in her sleep. Demons I helped put there. I curl an arm under her and gather her to my side. Her hands grip me around the waist, and she finally settles down once her head nestles on my chest. I reach down and select a journal, using my thumb to flip open to the first page. She has a bin full of them, and I’m determined to read every single one.
I don’t know how much time passes as I read. The sun rose a while ago. I heard Natalie get up and smelled the faint percolation of coffee being brewed.
Eyes burning from the strain of reading for hours in dim lighting, I close the last journal and look down at the incredible, strong woman cradled in the crook of my arm. It makes sense now why she and Harper are so close. Like finding like. Kindred spirits. Both women are survivors.
“You’re not alone anymore. I’m here now, and I swear I’ll make you happy. I’ll doanythingto make you happy.”
What the hell am I saying? I don’t deserve her forgiveness. She has every right to hate me. But I hope I can change that because I can’t let her go. Never again.
Douglass’s breaths are even and wispy as they caress my bare chest. But even in sleep, she doesn’t look peaceful. Several more minutes pass before she stirs and her eyelids flutter and slowly blink open. The most magnificent smile forms on her lips when she sees me, followed by confusion.
She pinches me. Hard.
“Ow! What was that for?” I rub the spot on my abdomen where she got me.
“Wanted to make sure I wasn’t still dreaming.”
“Aren’t you supposed to pinch yourself?”
A small giggle breaks free before it abruptly stops, and she scowls. “Why are you in my bed?”
I give her the most honest answer I can. “Get used to it.” The thin square of gauze secured to her arm with medical tape draws my attention. “Is it hurting?”
“No,” she replies too quickly.
