“Apparently, he only likes his hands to do that,” my inner voice sneered.
His eyes met mine, “I'm sorry.”
His eyes drifted around my face, once beautiful and happy, now a picture of pure misery. His fingers followed his eyes’ route, tips feathering my scars.
“I. . . I. . .” his hand pressed into my cheek, gentle and loving.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, my fingers moving to his.
I wasn’t sure why I responded that way, but something about seeing the pain in his eyes had me wanting to take it away.
“It’s not, Moonlight,” he mouthed the words, squeezing my fingers in his. “It’s really not.”
I edged closer, scars to the pillow, my hand in his.
“I missed you. I missed you so much.” He closed his eyes, hiding the depth of his feelings, fearing they wouldn’t be appreciated.
“I know.” I stalled. “I missed you, too. I still miss you.”
“I’m right here,” he said, with his eyes still closed.
“And yet there’s more distance than ever.”
A tear rolled from his closed eyes. The shaking in his body vibrated me forward until my lips touched his. I held my position as I talked. “I’m sorry for what I said.”Yesterday.
Ireallywas sorry for what I said yesterday.
I could be sorry to Woodrow and feel totally different things—fueled by hate and resentment—for Hell.
“I’m sorry for all he’s done. . . for all your pain. It’s not meant to come from me, but I hope it still means something. I’m sorry for taking so long to come for you.”
Ten years. Ten very long years.
“I have a headache. There’s tension. I’m going to take a shower.” His reactions were sluggish as his hand broke away from mine and he created a distance between us. His lips left mine without an attempt of stealing a kiss, and I felt a strange feeling of rejection seeping from somewhere inside me.
“I have to go. I have to go now.”
And he did. He launched to his feet and disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
He needed to be alone.
But I needed the opposite, with confusion poisoning my blood.
I waited for him to return, listening for the shower to go off as I watched the dials move around the face of his watch. It had been almost an hour, and he was still in the bathroom, shower raining down.
I pulled my hair forward, needing the extra security; it was much harder to do, now that Hell shaved off my fringe.
I moved off towards the closed door, something pulling me in Woodrow’s direction; a magnetic force, ignoring the voice in my head, still saying to leave.
I was always the kind of girl to listen to my heart over my head. . . and so many pieces of my broken heart, still belonged to him.
“Woodrow?” I called, falsifying my serenity. “Woodrow?” I called a little louder this time.
“Come back to bed!” I shouted this time. “You’re fine. I’m fine,” I repeated his words from earlier. “Let’s talk.”
But he never heard me.
Because he was already gone.
