“Tell me.”
“Not now,” she rasps out, gaze dropping. “I guess I woke you?”
“No, I was in the living room, on my laptop.”
“You can’t sleep?”
“I’m still a little jet lagged. You sure you don’t want to tell me?”
“It was just a dream.” That statement and her posture strips all the intimacy out of the moment. Her guard is back up and firmly in place. I try to crowd her a little to keep her close to me, in hopes of a confession, but release her when she pulls away, shifts around me, and stands. “I’m fine.”
I grab her hand before she can fully retreat. “Don’t lie to me.”
She tenses before glancing over her shoulder down to where I sit on the edge of the bed. Resentment. It’s so clear, her voice frigid when she speaks. “That’s a bold request.”
“I’m aware.”
“You want honesty?” She pulls her hand away. “I’ve been through years of these dreams without you.”
That statement, along with the firm echo of the bathroom door shutting behind her lets me know exactly where I stand.
She doesn’t need me, but that much I knew. She’s become her own woman, independent, fiercely so, and so much fucking stronger. She doesn’t need me, and that’s a fact I’ll have to live with and respect her for.
I just need to make her want me again.
Her face is clear when she emerges minutes later, posture stoic when her eyes lift to mine.
Challenge.
My fighter.
She’s daring me to press her, but tonight I won’t. Fisting my T-shirt, I pull it over my head and toss it to the floor. Her gaze drops when I push off my sweatpants and step out of them. We haven’t been intimate in months, in truth, years, because of the way I took her the last time in my gin-infused rage, something I’ll never forgive myself for. There’s nothing I want more than to erase that as the last time I had her, replace that memory, replace the lingering sound of her anguished cries with moans of pleasure. But even if she were free of those head-to-foot fucking flannel pajamas, I wouldn’t take her. Not with the cautious hesitation in her eyes, the fear. It doesn’t stop me from needing her or growing hard at the sight of the beautifully structured equal she’s grown into. She bristles when I walk over to where she stands, angry, emotionally confused, tormented by a past I can’t change and mistakes I can’t erase.
“I don’t know how this goes either,” I breathe. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take, or what words to say, or what moves to make. I have no plans, Cecelia, none.” I grip her hand and lead her back to bed. She lays with her back to me, wordless, and I pull her into my chest, my arms wrapped around her.
Her scent, the comfort of knowing she’s safe, eases some of the blow of her cries. I wait, hope for her explanation, hope that I wasn’t the cause of her tears, but nothing comes.
Time. My goddamned enemy, an invisible force I’ve never been able to defeat. Seconds to save my brother, now years between me and the woman I love, all due to my judgments, my mistakes. And it’s time that rears its ugly head at me now, mocking me, the main reason for the barrier between us.
She’s lived so much life without me.
The irony? I have to make peace with my nemesis because it’s the only thing that can heal us.
“Ce rêve dans lequel nous sommes tous les deux. Emmène-moi avec toi.” This dream we go into together. Take me with you.
She grips my hand, the one palming her stomach, and not long after, she drifts away and takes me with her.
I wake up alone.