Not numb.
Not noble enough to pretend a pretty woman in my lap did nothing to me.
Georgia’s body was soft and warm and willing. Her kisses were gentle until they weren’t. She wanted me. Openly. Easily. Without history cutting up the air between us.
And for a few minutes, I let myself want her back.
Almost.
That was the hell of it.
Almost.
My body was there.
My hands knew what to do.
My mouth moved against hers.
Heat built.
Desire sparked.
But something inside me stayed dim.
Not dead.
Not alive either.
Just going through the motions of a man who should have been grateful for easy warmth and clean want, but kept waiting for the wrong ghost to appear behind his eyes.
And she always did.
Destiny.
I hated myself for it.
Georgia would laugh, and I’d hear Destiny trying not to cry at her mother’s grave.
Georgia would touch my jaw, and I’d remember Destiny’s fingertips tracing my clean-shaven cheek under the palms in Cabo.
Georgia would kiss my neck, and I’d remember turning cold at a beach bar because some woman’s perfume wasn’t hers.
One night, Georgia pulled back and studied me in the blue flicker of the television.
“You disappear sometimes,” she said.
I looked at her hand resting against my chest. “I’m right here.”
“No.” Her smile was sad. “Your body is.”
That hit too close.
I sat up slowly, dragging a hand through my hair.
Georgia adjusted her shirt and pulled her knees beneath her on the couch. She wasn’t angry. That almost made it worse. Anger I could handle. Anger gave me something to fight.
Kindness just left me standing there with myself.
