What does that mean, though?
I can’t deny a chaotic chemistry has been building between us since he first started acting as my bodyguard. Every time he’s close, the air seems to thicken a little more. Every touch is a tad more claiming. The mutual attraction between us isn’t at question. But getting a hard-on is different from wanting to be with someone.
Jealousy …
That implies a desire to possess exclusively.
It’s another story entirely and somehow casts a different light on everything.
The mystery of it all keeps me awake later than usual. I spend ages mulling over the meaning of his actions and how I feel about it all because as confused as I am by him, it’s nothing compared to the bafflement I feel at my response.
In the moment, with DiAngelo’s body pressed against mine, his cock nestled between my ass cheeks, I wasn’t scared or angry or even frustrated. The only thing I felt when I realized he’d been jealous was pure satisfaction. It’s the reason my body writhed against his of its own volition. Something deep inside me preened at the idea of belonging to him, and that’s the part that has me most unsettled.
I haven’t wanted a relationship since Craig died. Not even a little.
When I think about it logically, I still don’t want a man. I don’t want anyone to get too close to me and endanger themselves. Yet the chemistry simmering between me and DiAngelo overrides logic and scrambles my thoughts like a rake through sand.
I wake in the morning no closer to understanding than when I’d first gone to bed, but leave it to the universe to swoop in and remind me of what’s at stake. Kristi messaged me in the night.
Guilt wraps its cold, bony fingers around my shoulders and squeezes.
Kristi: you going to pay your respects tomorrow?
Kristi: it’s his birthday, in case you forgot
Kristi: seems like the least you can do
I take a breath before I reply. Craig’s mom was never my biggest fan, but she got downright mean after his death. It’s the pain that causes her to lash out, and I’m a big reason for that pain. I try to be understanding, but damn does it hurt.
As for the date, I hadn’t forgotten, but for once, it hasn’t haunted me upon its approach. I’ve had too much on my mind to remember to feel guilty.
The reprieve was nice while it lasted.
Me: I’m sorry but I can’t be there. I’ll do what I can to visit on the anniversary.
The anniversary of his murder.
I always go to the cemetery that day. She knows that. It’s been five years, though, and she still shames me for not going more often.
But I refuse to let it get to me today. I woke with a buoyancy—an unexpected hopefulness—that I want to take hold of with both hands and never let go. Today feels different. I feel different.
It’s dangerous, this new unfurling curiosity, yet I can’t quash it.
I don’t want to, if I’m honest.
“Do we still have blueberries?” I ask when I join DiAngelo in the kitchen. He’s sitting at the bar shirtless and drinking coffee. His hair is still wet from a shower, and his muscles are taut from working out.
My fingers twitch with the need to trace each dip and curve.
“I think so.”
“I’m going to make blueberry pancakes. You want some?” I saw syrup hiding in the pantry the other day and decided it would be fun to make a treat. Now that I’m feeling more comfortable here in his home, I’d like to do more cooking. I enjoy the process of making a meal, and I’d love to feel like I’m giving back to DiAngelo in some way since he’s done so much to help me. Despite our arguments, I appreciate his sacrifices.
“Yeah, that works.”
“Or I can leave off the blueberries, if you prefer,” I hurry to add.
“Blueberries are good. I can make eggs, too, if you want.”
