“Well, you’re about to be,” he says, pulling back. Our glossy eyes lock, and he smirks. “It’s not a fake. I just really hate this painting.”
“Damon!”
He laughs. Truly laughs. It’s a wonderful sound. A sound I haven’t heard often enough these past couple of months. But then I see it. Lingering behind the afterglow of an orgasm, behind the facade of a confident man, behind the cheeky smile and glimmer of joy in his eyes. I see pain. It’s hiding there. Lost in the labyrinth of his mind. I want to help guide that pain toward the light. I want to set it free. But only he can do that.
I think he’s trying.
I hope he is.
THE DUST
DAMON
My emotions can’t seemto find an equilibrium. No matter how hard I try, the scales never stay balanced for long. Yesterday, I felt joy. Genuine happiness. It was as if, for a brief moment, I had stripped away the burden of grief, of guilt, until I was light. Feather-like. But that moment was fleeting as are all moments of peace.
It’s my fault this time. I asked for this. I requested this information. All highs fade. I can’t ride them forever. But I wanted a second more. An hour. A day. But it’s not his fault. He’s not responsible for this erratic flip of my emotions. Neither is she. It’s on me.
It’s always on me.
“Damon…” Emery's voice is so fucking gentle. She thinks I’ll crack. Break before her eyes. And she’s not wrong. My appetite vanishes as I stare at the scallop dinner Quin prepared. “Baby?”
“I’ve commissioned a headstone,” Quin cuts through my silence. I glance up at him, frowning. “It’s the same style and make as your…” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. As my family. “And,” he clears his throat, “I’ve also contacted the cemetery. They said once the headstone is ready, they’ll be able to?—”
I hold out my hand. Enough. I’ve had enough. Ashes. That’s all that’s left of her. I can’t even remember if she wanted to be cremated. Or if she wanted to be buried. Why don’t I remember? We must have talked about it. We talked so much. But it’s blank. Nothing. I squeeze my eyes shut, my gut twisting with nausea.
“I apologize if I overstepped…” Quin says solemnly. “I didn’t think you’d want to handle the…logistics of?—”
“What?” I snap my eyes open, confused. Emery’s gaze flits across my face, equally as contrite. Oh, Christ. They think I’m upset. That I’m angry. That my silence is rooted in contempt. I let out a defeated breath. “Please don’t apologize to me. I… You were right.” I swallow. “Thank you for handling the…logistics.”
Emery glances briefly at Quinton, posture tense, hands fidgeting. “Do you… Do you want us to give you a moment? Alone? Or…?”
Do I want to be alone? Yes. Do I want to sit in the dark and never see the break of daylight? I do. Do I deserve solitude? Yes. Do I deserve to rot in my remorse? Wholeheartedly, I do.
I know it’s sick. I know that Emery is here and alive, her heart beating because of my reckless actions. I know how it must look to her. To watch me regret that fateful night. What if I was never in that car? Would Emery still be alive? Would she have found a different donor? Or would she, instead of Alison, be nothing but dust? Nothing but a memory.
If I leave this table, if I tell them to give me space, am I running? Am I pushing them away? Sage would say that I am. That I’m putting up walls, barriers. Barriers that will inevitably be the reason this relationship collapses. I deserve to live in the rubble though. In the aftermath of my sins. But I’m selfish.
And so I say, “No. Don’t leave. I’m-I’m okay.”
Emery’s eyes gloss over as she reaches across the table, her hand resting on top of mine. “You’re not okay, Damon. I… We don’t expect you to be okay.”
I force a smile. “I’m alright. Really.”
Quin shakes his head. “You can talk to us, D. You know that, right? Emery and I… We’re here for you. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
Talk to them? And say what?
Emery nibbles on her bottom lip. “Maybe Quin and I should skip the conference. It doesn’t feel right to leave you alone when?—”
“Or you can come with us,” Quinton suggests. “Emery’s flying commercial, but you could come with me and?—”
“Stop.” Jesus. They’re walking on eggshells. Treating me like a fragile, poorly wired bomb. What kind of man have I become? So weak. So fucking pathetic. “Idon’t need either of you babysitting me, okay? I’m fine. Plus,” I look at Quin, “you’re the keynote speaker, Q. You can’t miss it. I won’t let you.”
“So, come with us,” Emery says, hopeful. “It’ll be fun. We can?—”
“We can what?” I cock my head, tone sour. “Sit in a hotel room and sing kumbaya together? The media will be there, Emery. Reporters. They want you and Quin. Not me. Plus,” I push my chair back, “I’d rather not be a third wheel.”
“Damon…”
