“Yes, it is. But I’m still on the tail end of a project right now. And I just did your competition. I’m looking to take a month or two off,” I say, and Casey groans, falling back in her chair.
“You suck, Rowan.”
“That’s not what you said when you received my submissions.”
Casey levels me with a stern expression, officially soaking up all of the humor in the conversation.“Okay, Row. Take your break, and when you’re done, come do the national parks.”
“I’ll think about it.” She knows I’ll say yes once I’m antsy enough from my break.
“Butactuallytake a break. I have a feeling that abreakto you isn’t a break to others. Put the camera down.” I offer her another careless shrug in response to her words, and Casey rolls her eyes. “Bye, asshole. Call me when you’re ready.”
She does not wait for my response but ends the call, leaving me in complete silence.
It really wouldn’t be too bad—doing the park booklet, I mean. I’ll travel and enjoy nature. But after all of the constant movement of the past few months, I kind of want to sit around and do nothing. To daydream and stare at walls.
And as I get up to make lunch, I take this as an opportunity to do just that. Slapping together a turkey sandwich, I take it tomy living room and sit down, escaping to that little place in my mind.
There he is—swimming laps around the pool with graceful, sure strokes. His lean body is so smooth, yet strong, and I think I’d give just about anything to touch it.
And in the dreams where I do, he’s so soft. So warm and pliant beneath my palms that I just know I could break him if I wanted. That he’d lie there and let me rip him to pieces. And thatreallygets to me. Knowing that I’d have that kind of control, that ability to coax and tempt.
Sitting on my couch, I watch him pull himself out of the pool, a smooth and practiced motion, and his shorts cling to his skin sinfully. He’s so fucking beautiful, so ripe for the taking.
And because I control every aspect of this fantasy, this false reality, I know he’s pure and untouched in this moment—waiting for me to reach out and take it. I have yet to push my own way inside of him.
I want to. I want to steal that from him just as much as I want to hold him and feel him breathe. To listen to his voice and finally hear his thoughts without knowing every detail first—as they’re really just my own.
I want Benjamin to be separate from me, his own entity. But I’m not a god; I cannot make a person. So instead, I continue to daydream.
And fuck, if he isn’t the prettiest vision.
Chapter Three
Rowan
As I’m stirring from a nap—I must have fallen asleep amidst my daydreaming—the sound of tires against gravel catches my attention.
I stand from the couch, stretching out my tense back and the muscles that have locked there. I seem to have sweated enough to make my shirt sticky.
Three loud knocks resonate throughout the house as I comb a hand through my damp black curls.
Who the fuck could that be? No one from town comes out here—no one from townlikesme. I stand in the hallway, limiting my movements; if they believe I’m not home, they’ll go away. And then I can take a shower and spend the afternoon daydreaming about the dream I just had, where Benjamin rode on the back of my motorbike, giggling as he gripped my waist.
What I would give for that to happen in real life.
I am quite pathetic.
My plan falls apart when the stranger knocks again, louder this time. After two more obnoxiousbangs, I can take it no longer. My bare feet thunder against the wooden floorboards.
“Can I help—” I swing the door open.
I’ve felt it my entire life. This unbearable sadness; this intangible longing. And I figured it stemmed from some kind of chemical imbalance or personality disorder that the doctors just couldn’t pinpoint.
But as my eyes lie upon him—as I spend several long seconds considering the very real possibility that I’m dreaming—I ponder a reality in which, instead of a personality disorder or a chemical imbalance, it was my body’s way of informing me that something was missing.
Because here Benjamin stands, in all his glory, right on my doorstep. Like an angel sent from above just for me with his golden halo of curls. If I were even slightly weaker of a man than I am now, I would cry right here.
In this exact moment, I can feel every nerve ending in my body. And in every nerve ending, I can feel an all-encompassing sorrow—so devastating and so consuming that it fills my entire body, leaving room for nothing else. As if I am reliving a tremendous loss, a disastrous heartbreak. It feels eerily similar to the ache I’ve carried since I was a child.
