And then, slowly, he lowers down until his lips press against my forehead.
I don’t move.
I don’t pull away.
I don’t even breathe as I feel the sweet satisfaction of that simple act of affection.
When he pulls away and looks at me, I can’t seem to keep my eyes from jolting to his lips. Those lips that have controlled me in every aspect over the last couple of months. The way they’ve travelled over my body, igniting a worn-out flame within me. How they’ve comforted me. How they’ve protected me. Those lips have transformed me into a different woman, and all I want is for them to take me once again.
And then my breath gets caught in my throat as he lowers again, this time pressing a sweet kiss to the tip of my nose.
My hands tremble on my lap as a cloudy pressure builds in my chest, stilling my breath.
Quietly, just above a whisper, he says, “I love you, Coraline. And I’m so fucking sorry I hurt you.”
Tears well in my eyes once again just before his lips graze mine. I’m embarrassed by the whimper that passes through my throat as he slowly pulls away. My eyes connect with his as a tear dribbles down my cheek. He wipes it away with his thumb and then says, “Have a good night.”
Before I can protest, he makes his way out of my room, and I listen as he carefully works his way downstairs. That’s when I let out a deep breath and sink into my covers. I pull them up and over my head and curl against my pillow.
How?
How can I still feel so strongly about him after what he did?
How can I possibly still love him so much even though he broke down every ounce of trust I was able to build back up?
And how come all I want to do is run down the stairs, tell him I love him too, and then curl up in his strong, protective arms?
But I don’t.
Because even though my body is screaming one thing, my heart is still trying to piece itself back together.
Stella: How are things going over there?
Cora: Not great.
Greer: Is he being a dick again?
Cora: No. Every day, every moment he gets, he tells me how beautiful I am. How much I make him happy. How I make him laugh. How I’m the best thing that ever happened to him. How he’s so deeply in love with me that just seeing me puts a smile on his face.
Stella: Ummm . . . I think my nipples are hard.
Greer: Yeah, that’s, uh . . . wow.
Cora: See! I would rather him be jingling for something every two seconds, pissing me off. That I can take. This onslaught of love, it’s too much.
Stella: Because you love him too.
Cora: I do.
Greer: And you wish he’d never hurt you and broken your trust.
Cora: Exactly.
Stella: And you want nothing more than to be with him, as if nothing ever happened.
Cora: Correct.
Greer: Well . . . that’s your answer, Cora. We all make mistakes. We all do stupid things. Think about what Arlo did, how he filled out that evaluation during my first year of teaching that almost got me fired. If I can get over that, don’t you think you could get over what Pike did to you?
Cora: You were stronger than me.
Greer: You’re a lot stronger than you think you are.
I hear the hop, thud, hop of Pike climbing up the stairs, and I hold my breath as I sit in front of my computer, typing out a schedule for the new year and the plans for reshaping Frankie Donut’s social media profile . . . to reflect the style of some other accounts that seem to be gaining attention. I shall not name which ones.
I half expect him to come into my room again, but this time, he moves past my door and into the master bedroom.
What is he doing?
Every morning, I take him a new set of clothes to change into, and his toiletries are downstairs, so there shouldn’t be anything he needs upstairs.
The faucet to the bathtub turns on.
Scratch that, there is something he needs to do upstairs.
I consider offering him some help, but think better of it, because, well, he’s going to be naked, so he can figure that bath stuff out on his own.
So, I turn back to my computer, but instead of picking up where I left off, I stare at my computer screen, barely breathing as I listen in on what he’s doing. The water turns off after a bit, and I hear the rustling of a plastic bag. That must be him covering his cast.
Then I hear him mutter some swear words.
A few “bloodies” in there about the bag—which makes me smile, even though it shouldn’t.
Followed by an “Ah, fuck.” And then a thud against the wall.
That’s when I fly out of my chair and into the master bathroom. I find Pike leaning against the wall, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, and holding a garbage bag in his hand. The road rash he acquired during his accident has almost completely healed, and even though he hasn’t been able to work out like he normally does, he’s still very much filled out in muscles, and his abs look tighter and more defined than before.