by Hannah Ford
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know that. It’s just what people say. I don’t know why I said it. I hate it when people say it to me about my mom.” I sigh. “It doesn’t help anything.”
His hand on my hip urges me closer, until we’re pushed together. He kisses me again softly, rolling my bottom lip between his, nipping me softly with his teeth.
“Is he ever going to get better?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. No, Abigail, he’s not going to get better.”
I swallow. “You don’t have to hold onto him, Elijah.”
He stiffens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to pull away. But I hold him close. If he can push me to my limits, then I can push him to his.
“Yes, I do,” he says finally.
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t pull away from me, either. And so I keep stroking his arm, keep holding him close, keep trying to stay connected.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral.
“I told you what happened.” His voice is dark and firm. But after a moment, he begins to speak. “I was in college. I was supposed to be coming home for the summer. I didn’t want to come home. My parents had just gotten divorced, and it was… being at home was depressing.”
I run the backs of my fingers down his arm, raking over the smoothness of his skin.
“So I lied. I told everyone that my break started a week later than it did. I just didn’t want to be home. I wanted to stay at school for as long as possible.”
He rolls over onto his back, and I don’t try to coax him back to me. Instead, I prop myself up on my elbow and wait.
“But finally, I had no more excuses. I took my time leaving, cleaning my dorm room, double-checking I’d packed everything, having lunch at the dining hall. I even went to the bookstore and bought all the books I’d need for the next semester.”
His words are coming faster now, like a dam that’s been broken, and I don’t dare breathe, move, touch him. It’s the most he’s ever shared with me, and I’m not going to do anything to cause him to stop.
“The campus was deserted – everyone had gone home a week earlier -- and I remember pulling out and just having this overwhelming feeling of sadness. Everyone else had been so excited to go home, to see their families, to get away from the stress of finals. And all I wanted to do was stay at school.”
He glances at me to see how I’m reacting, and I can see the genuine sadness on his face now. The walls he’s so carefully constructed, the barriers he’s put between us are down. It’s the first time we’ve had a moment like this, and I know that even if it’s only temporary, it’s important.
“When I got home, the house was quiet. My mother had moved out, and my father should have been at work. My brother was eighteen, a senior in high school, and it wasn’t unusual for him not to be there.” The words are coming even faster now, tumbling out of him, like a tsunami that’s been held behind a wall that’s finally crumbled. “I went upstairs, and there he was. He was…I won’t tell you what he looked like. But it was bad, Abigail. I pulled him down and I tried… I tried to save him, but I…he was just…” He cuts off, his last words choked off by the pain he’s feeling.
I pull him toward me and wrap my arms around him, rubbing the back of his neck.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say.
“How do you know?”
“Because I know. Just because you didn’t get home in time, that’s not your fault, Elijah. What happened to your father is a terrible, terrible thing. But it’s no one’s fault.”
We intertwine our fingers and lie there for a few moments, not saying anything. Instead, we just gaze at each other, our eyes never leaving the others. Every so often, he kisses me gently, and his other hand never leaves the bare skin of my stomach right above my panties.
“I need to ask you something,” he says finally.
“Okay.”
“Why did you let me take that picture of you just now?” He shakes his head. “After what happened to you tonight?”
“Because I trust you. I love you. I want to show you that.”
“Why, though?” he whispers. “Why is it me that you love?”
“Why it is me that you love?”
There’s no answer. It’s just something indescribable.
And so instead, he kisses me. He kisses me with intent, his mouth on mine, his hands in my hair, deep and slow and strong, like he needs me to breathe. And as he pulls my panties to the side and pushes into me, as he makes love to me, as he shatters me with pleasure, I realize that we need each other.
That without him, life makes no sense.
Chapter 6
ELIJAH
I wake early, before even the first rays of sun have peeked above the horizon.
Abigail is curled next to me, her head resting on my shoulder, her dark hair splayed across the pillow underneath us.
Her breathing is slow and steady, her lips slightly parted.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand next to me, then tap out a quick text to my assistant, Marissa.
The reply comes immediately, and an hour later, there’s an alert on my phone letting me know that I have a visitor. This is Manhattan. And if you have money, there’s nothing you can’t have delivered.
I slide out of the bed carefully, throw on a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.
I check on Abigail one more time to make sure she’s still sleeping, then ease out of the room, making sure to leave the door open in case she needs me.
After disabling the security system, I open the door.
“Mr. Armstrong,” Abner Wells says, reaching out and taking my hand. He’s dressed in a suit and tie, and I wonder who it was that called him and got him out of bed at this ungodly hour. He holds a briefcase in one hand, and nothing else. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Mr. Wells. It’s nice to meet you as well.”
He declines my offer of coffee, which I appreciate. The shorter we can make this meeting, the less chance we have of waking Abigail up.
We retire to my office, where I sit down behind my desk.
He sets the briefcase down and opens it.
Inside, an array of diamonds dazzle with their brilliance, each one shinier and bigger than the next.
“These are the most exquisite diamonds in the world,” Abner says. “Your assistant said you were looking for only eight carats and up. Any of these can be set in the precious metal of your choice.”
I listen intently as he shows me the stones, going on about cut and color and clarity.
After he’s gone, I sit in my office, watching the sun rise over Manhattan, the dusky pinks and oranges changing to purples and blues.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting there when Abigail appears in my doorway. She’s wearing my t-shirt, her long hair in loose tangles around her shoulders.
“Hey,” she says.
“Good morning, beautiful.”
“Are you working?”
“No. Come here.”
She walks to me and I pull her onto my lap and into my arms, her body still warm from sleep.
I think about last night.
How I told Abigail about what happened with my father. I’ve never told anyone that, and the way she reacted – it made me even more certain she was the woman I wanted to marry.
And yet the story I told her wasn’t the whole truth.
It wasn’t even close.
The End of Part Eight
Look For Part Nine, Coming Soon!
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