Once I was cleared to watch television, he sat beside me through four seasons ofThe Great British Bake Offwithout complaint—longer than most of the hosts stuck around—and now we can’t hear the wordsVictoria spongewithout giggling.
Robbie even insists on sleeping in the same bed as me in case I need him in the night—with him on one side of the bed and me surrounded by my pillow fortress on the other, listening to him breathe… which makes me feel like I’m low-key stuck in some kind of weird Puritan sleepover porn.
And all of that’s wonderful. The most wonderful. Heaven, honestly.
But it’s not real.
I finally stopped fighting the pull, sometime between the concussion and that first terrible, wonderful shower, and moved back to Delusionville. I full-on let myself believe Robbie’s hands are intentionally lingering just a few seconds too long on my back. That his breath catches when he helps me out of my shirt. That he’s actually staring at my ass, when I catch him looking at me in the mirror, rather than tracking the fading bruises on my back. That the mouthwateringly impressive hard-on Robbie displayed in the shower that first morning was actuallyfor meand not a biological reaction to being skin against skin in the shower with someone while being choked by my lust pheromones.
But deep down in my soul, I’m not fooled. Like thosecrazy kids in the Garden of Eden, now that I know the truth, I can’t unknow it: Robbie’s straight, he’s engaged, I’m headed for a pain that’ll make this broken collarbone seem like nothing…
And I’m helplessly addicted to soaking up every single minute of the fantasy.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s feeling helpless.
Just this morning, when we woke up in bed, Robbie rolled toward me with a look of dreamy contentment on his face, found me watching him sleepily, and grinned so bright my eyes watered.
“Morning! It’s Saturday, baybee. You know what that means,” he’d said with a wink and a smack to my thigh, like this was athing we did. Like this wasour life. Like having the thing I wanted most wasactually possible.
He’d been so freaking lovely, so happy, I’d grinned back besottedly and said, “Pancakes?”
And his whole expression had softened. He’d stared at my mouth—no, really, I’d swear he did—just a beat too long in that way you do when you’re imagining kissing someone, reached out a hand to cup my jaw, and stroked one calloused thumb over my chin.
Then he’d launched himself out of bed with a “Hell yes, pancakes!” followed by “Gonna shower upstairs first.”
And while I’d lain there, listening to his feet pound up the stairs, it had hit me all over again that I’m gonna be pushing this same goddamn boulder up the same goddamn hill for eternity.
Delusion, pain, grief.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Which means this heaven is actuallyhell.
Fuck. My. Life.
Now we’ve finally made it to the kitchen, and it hasn’t gotten any better.
“Damn, the coffee came out good today.” Robbie’s got one big hand wrapped around an even bigger mug as he stands by the stove, cooking bacon. He’s wearing a pair of baggy sweats and not a damn thing else, because why should he put actual clothes on when he’s chilling with his best platonic buddy?
He gives me a teasing grin and shakes the mug in my direction while shimmying his hips at the same time, and the sweatpants slide one critical inch. “Yousureyou don’t want some of this?”
Oh, I want some of that. Some ofallthat.
“Ack, ew, gross,” I say primly, safely tucked on a stool at the island with my sling on. “I’m all set.” I tap my can of Diet Coke with my phone.
But though I try desperately to fight it, I can’t help the tingle in my balls at his little dance… or the snarky comment I spew out as self-defense. “Careful the bacon doesn’t burn while you’re bumping and grinding, there, Beyoncé.”
Robbie turns to check the pan, and I exhale a shaky breath. I genuinely don’t know how I was able to handle being around Robbie all these years without combusting.
Purehell.
But I’d bet even Sisyphus was allowed to jerk off during his boulder-rolling as a coping mechanism, which is more than I can say for myself. Not with Robbie constantly hovering at my elbow, ready to walk me to the bathroom and wait outside so I don’t plunge headfirst into the toilet or whatever.
I’ve managed to jack off—left-handed, which is weird as fuck—precisely three times in the last five days. The first was the one and only time I let Robbie shower with me, followed by two furtive, desperate sessions while Robbie was at the grocery store, which barely took the edge off. And I confess, that second grocery trip was a made-up errand where I’d specifically sent him to find a kind of gochugaru I didn’t think existed within the Winsome town limits in the hopes he’d be gone for a long while… only for him to be back in twenty minutes after snagging some from sweet, old Mrs. Kwon, the piano teacher, who was only too happy to do a favor for her Robbie-ya.
Robbie grabs a container of flour from the top shelf of a glass-fronted cabinet, and the stretch means those gray sweats are poised on the cliff of his round ass, ready to fall. I nearly moan out loud.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I complain as he digs a measuring cup into the container.
