“Does it hurt?” I ask pointing to her foot.
“A little, yeah.”
My pride yells at me not to do it. My reason instructs me not to touch her. My heart begs me not to go on. But I’m not listening.
I extend my arm to her which moves on its own as if it were controlled by an external force. She looks at it for a second, considering it before accepting it, but when she does…God, I feel all of my muscles contract and the bite in my heart clamps down a bit harder.
All I did was touch her damn arm.
Do I have any idea what the hell I’m getting myself into?
What it means to look at her, feel her, touch her and not be able to have her?
God, she’s only been back in my life for a few days and we’re already at this point?
How could I even imagine having thoughts like this about her? Why don’t I just let myself be eaten by my own guilt and stop staring at her like a maniac? Why don’t I give up and stop torturing myself like this?
Because I already know how it’s going to end. I’ve seen this one.
She’ll slip into every thought and every breath.
She’ll dig greedily into my heart with her nails and after having scratched every surface, when the scars are too vast to be sewn together again, she’ll turn her back on me and walk away with the blood still on her hands.
And I’ll let her go. I’ll stand there frozen in my puddle of blood while she walks away with everything, leaving me to my agonising desperation. Because that’s what happens when you let your heart decide for you, when you let yourself open up to someone, when you believe in them.
You end up alone.
Abandoned.
And yet, here I am.
When we get to O’Connell Street she nods for me to go into Starbucks. I order two coffees at the counter while she grabs a place on the sofa.
I look over at the window and imagine she hasn’t had anything to eat. Not knowing what she might like, I ask the girl behind the counter to add two muffins – one blueberry, one chocolate chip – and two sandwiches: one BLT and the other with egg and sausage. Then I wonder if she might prefer something other than coffee. So I ask them to make a cappuccino and a caramel latte – you can never be too sure.
I get everything onto two trays and make my way to the sofa. “I thought you might be hungry,” I say, and her eyes flash wide in surprise. “I didn’t know what you wanted.”
She stays silent, her eyes glued to the table.
“I also didn’t know if you’d prefer a regular coffee or one of these fancy drinks, so I got one of each,” I go on, clumsily.
Riley rests her back on the sofa and I don’t know why, but she seems smaller than usual to me now. As if she were trying to become one with the fabric.
“Is everything alright?” I ask, worried.
She nods.
“Riley…don’t lie.”
“It’s okay.”
“‘Okay’ my arse. Did I do something wrong? Did I say…?”
She looks up slowly and my breath hitches.
“Why are you here, Ian? What do you want?”
“I don’t know.” I answer honestly. “I wanted to…I had to see you.”
