Not someone.Fawnie.
I know it has to be her. Fuck’s sake, I was supposed to text her and she’s probably been waiting for me. Not only that, but when all this time went by, she likely started to worry. And worry. And worry more, until she couldn’t take sitting by her phone anymore, and drove over here.
I try to be fast getting to the door, but my back, my ass, my fucking legs—all of ithurts. My muscles don’t want to work the way they should. They’re like an elastic band that won’t snap back into place.
I open the door to tear-filled, wide blue eyes. “Fuck. Fawnie. I’m so sorry. I got home, I was losing my shit, and I sat down at the piano. I played. Lost all track of time. I’m a selfish, stupid asshole. I know I made you worry. I’m s—”
She steps inside and crashes against me, tugging my face down to hers and frantically kissing me. It’s horrifying that as soon as her lips meet mine, all the bad shit gets drowned out. All the nonsense makes sense. My tangled thoughts and emotionsretreat, smoothing themselves into something not quite so stormy and violent. It should be horrifying, but I don’t know if it really is. Honestly, it’s kind of… nice. Nice in a way that should make me panic, but it doesn’t. Which should make me panic too. I shouldn’t be getting used to this. I shouldn’t want to rely on it. I shouldn’t want it at all.
I do. More than anything.
I lose myself in kissing her until she pulls back to catch her breath. She smiles at me, the most gorgeous smile I have ever seen. She’s not pissed off at how I failed at sex earlier, left her unsatisfied, sent her home with a butt plug in without even letting her come, and then told her I’d text and didn’t.
What a fucking dick.
The worry that burned bright in her eyes is now little more than fading embers. “You were playing the piano?” The joy in her voice is as bright and beautiful as her expression. “Will you play me something?”
My first reaction is to say no, but then I find that I do want to. Not out of guilt for being such an asshole, I know that me playing anything, even the most rudimentary little song, would make Fawnie happy. I want to bring her joy. So much joy. More than anything.
She follows me into the living room, trying very hard not to gape at the house. It’s nothing fancy. An outdated nineties bungalow with linoleum in the kitchen and beige carpet in the living room that has seen far better days. It still bears the marks of all the old furniture that was in here, probably for decades, though Preacher had the club furnish the place before I left his house to come here.
“It’s boring,” I say.
Fawnie’s cheeks flush. “No. It’s nice. Very tidy.”
“I don’t have enough things to make a mess with.”
“Minimalism is in.”
I don’t correct her. She doesn’t need correcting.
I sit on the wooden bench and shift over, patting the spot beside me on impulse. It would be weird if she stood and watched over my shoulder. God, I used to lie to myself about being good at lying to myself. I can’t even pretend anymore. I want nothing more than to feel the glide of her thigh pressed against mine.
I set my hands on the keys, but I look down after she shifts onto the bench. She’s not close enough. She’s trying not to crowd me. Makes sense, after the many epic meltdowns I’ve had with her. I’m the one who spreads my legs with the guise of moving my foot to the pedals below. I need to feel her pressed up against me. I made myself believe for five years that I didn’t need human touch. It’s been all of two seconds, and already, I can’t go back.
My stomach squirms at the sight of my denim clad thigh touching Fawnie’s ripped up black skinny jeans. I’m barefoot. She has fancy combat boots on with lots of little spikes sticking out all over them. The shoulder of her pink houndstooth oversized blazer grazes my bare arm. She has a little black tank top on under it. The soft skin of her flat stomach peeks out between her jeans and the black cotton ribbing.
I focus on my hands. What if I got out of my head for a moment?
What if I changed the narrative one thought at a time?
“What do you want to hear?”
“Anything.”
I like Bach. I know many pieces from memory. I can’t play something from inside of me, something of my own. It would be too much right now. I play, my hands moving without my brain giving my guidance. They remember the notes better than the rest of me. I don’t play one piece through. I pick and choose, taking parts here and here, whatever wants to keep flowing.
It’s not less intimate. Not with Fawnie so close, her leg brushing mine, the heat of her body so close, her vanilla coconut scent that should be absolutely overwhelming, but is alwaysperfection, filling my damaged lungs every time I breathe in.
I can’t sit here and strip myself down and not give her full honesty. She deserves nothing less. Maybe I do too. The truth is, I’m so tired of being miserable. I could do better. Maybe I can’t fix myself, but I could fix a lot of things about myself and about what I’ve been doing.
I stop, wrenching my hands from the keys and tucking them between my knees.
Fawnie doesn’t even wait a moment. Her hands skim over my knee and land on mine immediately. She brushes her fingers over my knuckles, then covers them completely with both of hers. I’m all shaky inside. Buzzing with nervous energy at what I’m about to say, but there’s less dread than there should be. I’m comfortable with Fawnie. She’s seen some pretty gnarly shit already and she hasn’t run. I know she won’t. She’s a good person. She might deserve more, and I might need to work like hell to be that for her, but I want to. I know she’ll stand beside me and pick me up when I fall. It’s selfish to want her, but maybe a little less because I truly want to earn her. I want to be the manwho can lift his head proudly and say that I did everything to be at her side and be a good partner.
Yes. Partner. We’re doing this. It’s so fucking clear that we are. I have zero doubts.
I’ve spent years so consumed by bullshit, rage, and bitterness that I haven’t been able to get out of my own head to make a proper decision about anything.
