Page 23 of Shatter

Melody

Ilisten as his bedroom door opens and closes half an hour later. I listen as the engine of his SUV turns over and the tires crunch the gravel and snow as he drives away.

Why the fuck did I let him leave?

Logically, I know he's right. If I had to watch another woman hang all over him, kiss his cheek, even if I knew they weren't really together, I'm not sure what I would do. Cutting off someone's hands isn't allowed, right?

But listening to him leave has my heart racing with panic. I'm shaking the mattress with the force of my breaths. I'm on the verge of a panic attack. This can't be a normal reaction to another human being leaving, can it?

How can my body need him so viscerally after only two nights with him? If my therapist wasn't in my mother's pocket, I'd ask her. Maybe I should find my own therapist and ask.

I shake my head, counting to four on an inhale, holding it, and then counting to four on an exhale.

It's obvious what a therapist would tell me. My times with him are the only times I've been able to breathe. They're an escape from a prison. They're safety for someone who is judged every moment of every day.

When every aspect of my life is managed down to the minute, he just lets me be. I push him, argue, I'm ugly with him, and every single time we've been together he's protected me - he's given me exactly everything I want and need. He sees me. Even when I was cursing him out at The Envelope, he took it all without reacting - letting me wail on him. He used the flashlight on his phone so I could see and put his suit jacket around my shoulders, even as I cursed his name.

My entire life has been people looking to take something from me - my time, my talent, my face. How can my image sell more perfumes? My name on a poster will sell more movie tickets. My mother and agent; seeing what the next thing they can commit me to to make more money than the contract before. Even Parker. But at least with Parker we're using each other. But I'm not even sure if that is true anymore. I've long stopped caring about my career or public image.

Honestly, most days I disassociate and daydream about being a barista.

Parker stirs next to me, but thankfully it's not from my panic attack. Orange light has started to streak in from the slats of the wooden window blinds.

I stay on my back, listening as he turns over a few more times before yawning and rubbing his eyes.

"Morning, babe," he says, dropping a kiss to my temple. I'd worry he was emotionally invested in this if I didn't know him better. I haven't caught any longing glances or pushing for anything more.

"Do you ever think about us?" I blurt out. It's not my best work, but fuck it, it's out there now.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, is us pretend-dating really doing anything for our brands? What if you miss out on someone special because we're pretending to be together?"

He sucks in a startled breath and chokes on a bit of saliva. He sits up in a panic and coughs. I sit up with him and rub my hand down his back.

"Why are you asking me that?"

I'm quiet as I debate internally. Do I tell him that I want to be with someone else? If I did, I'd have to answer a lot of questions that I just don't have answers to. Does Harrison want to be with me? Is this just a fuck for him? It didn't feel like it last night, but what do I know? I've never been in a real relationship. Is this a fuck buddies situation? A situationship?

Or does he look at sex as just a mutually beneficial way to pass the time? Owning and operating a sex club means he must have a different view on it, right?

All I know is that I want more. I can breathe when I'm with him. I want to breathe.

"Just wondering if we're going to do this forever. What if some incredible woman isn't making her move because you're 'with' me?" I ask, using air quotes.

He's quiet for a beat, which isn't typical for Parker.

"When that happens, I'll let you know," he whispers, his voice laced with sincerity. It takes me off guard. It makes me wonder if he has someone specific in mind. I hope she's amazing. Parker deserves someone who doesn't mind that he's a little simple-minded. He deserves someone who can see his big heart and love every part of him. I wish that person was me, but he's been so firmly in the 'brother-zone' that I'm not sure I could ever see him romantically.

He also doesn't have the scars that a certain older man has that make my heart race.

I excuse myself to do my morning business before rushing to the kitchen. Sure enough, there's a small white box with a white ribbon around it. Giddy, I slide it open and find a delicate silver chain, with the most perfect, tiny, silver sparrow in the middle.

Little Bird.

My stomach swoops in excitement. It's our secret. Only we know that he calls me that nickname. It's such a sweet nickname, too, and I call him Harry when I know he hates it. Although he didn't correct me last night when I told him 'goodbye'. Maybe he's getting used to it. He needs a better nickname, though. Sexy? Hotty? I snort a laugh to myself. He'd die if I walked up to him and called him 'hotty'.

Parker shuffles into the kitchen, running his hand through his messy bedhead, passing me, and going directly to the coffee machine. He messes with the fancy espresso maker, working on autopilot.