Me, in some anonymous hotel room god knows where, scrolling through my phone, seeing his name pop up on my screen and knowing I won’t see him again in person for… who knows. Months? Years?
Ever?
Coming here for Christmas, maybe, if I happen to be in Europe.Watching Rhiannon grow taller each visit. Watching Jacob grow more comfortable, more sure, but from a distance. Getting updates about his life through Sadie and Leo. About the woman he’ll eventually meet whoisn’ta nomadic sex blogger with a pathological fear of permanence.
The thought punches me in the chest so hard I forget how to breathe and heat blooms behind my eyes.
No. Nope. Absolutely not.
I donotcry after sex.
Except apparently my tear ducts did not get that memo.
A rogue tear slides out of the corner of my eye and into my hairline. Then another. And another. Suddenly my vision is shimmering and my chest is aching and I’m clinging to Jacob like he’s the only solid thing in the room.
He notices instantly.
Of course he does.
“Don’t leave,” I beg nonsensically, even thoughI’mthe one planning to depart.“Please, don’t leave me…”
“Tippi?” His voice is soft, alarmed. He shifts his weight just enough not to crush me, then pulls back to look at my face. His own is flushed, wrecked, still catching his breath. “Oh - oh. Are you - did I - did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong? Oh god, I’m so sorry, we can stop, I mean wehavestopped, but I can -”
“No,” I gasp, trying to swipe at my cheeks and utterly failing because my hands are still half-trapped between us. “Shit. I’m fine. I’m… Everything’s fine.”
He freezes, eyes wide, clearly not buying a word of it. “You’re crying.”
I snort, which just makes a horrible hiccuping noise. “Hadn’t noticed.”
His lips twitch helplessly, even as worry crumples his brow. “Is it… too much sensory input? Do you feel overwhelmed? What do you need… quiet? Weighted blanket? Tea?”
The fact that his first response to me crying mid-sex is to offer me a weighted blanket makes me want to sob harder and also marry him on the spot, which is yet another reason toget a fucking grip.
“I…” I take a shuddering breath, force a laugh that sounds brittle even to my own ears. “Wow. OK. That was intense. I think my hormones just decided to throw in a cameo. Happens sometimes. I must be getting close to my period or something. Just ignore me.”
He doesn’t.
“Is it… a bad intense?” he asks carefully. “Do we need to… rethink anything? Or…”
“It’s not you,” I blurt, hating how clichéd it sounds. “I promise.”
His expression softens, but his eyes stay searching. “That’s… nice to hear. But if it’s not me, that still means it’ssomething.”
The pressure building under my breastbone spikes. I can’t do this. Not naked. Not with his come still inside the condom, not with his skin against mine and his soft eyes on my stupid traitorous tears. “I just need a minute,” I croak. “Bathroom.”
He immediately rolls to the side, careful not to crush me, disposing of the condom with fastidious efficiency before lying back. “Take all the minutes you need,” he says quietly.
I scramble out of bed, suddenly all elbows and knees, and make a beeline for the en suite. Once the door is shut, I lean my forehead against the cool wood and exhale shakily.
Get it together, Mills.
I turn on the tap and splash cold water on my face. My reflection in the mirror looks wild-eyed and blotchy, mascara smudged, hair tangled. The image of me from a couple of hours ago, confident and laughing over dinner, feels like a different person.
“Since when,” I mutter to my puffy-eyed self, “doyoucry because you imagined not having a man in your life?”
The woman in the mirror raises an unimpressed eyebrow, as if to say,Since you started actually letting one in, dumbass.
I grip the sink, breathing hard through my nose until the urge to sob subsides into a scratchy ache. I’m not about to do some big cathartic release in this bathroom while he’s ten feet away worrying himself sick. That would be cruel.
