by Mila Ferrera
So I can’t blame last night on the nightmares.
I blame it on myself. Especially when I see her text. I let her push me away. I wasn’t enough, and nothing I said was quite right. I couldn’t get her to let me in. Whatever she might feel for me, it doesn’t quite get me over the wall she’s built.
And now, what am I supposed to say? We left things uncertain—I was actually stupid enough to say, “I’ll see you when I see you.” A limp-dick comment if ever there was one.
Fuck this. Let her wish I’d stayed—she’s the one who sent me away. I’m not going to make it any easier for her.
I meet Daniel out front of our building at eight to go for a run. He’s been saying he needs more exercise to burn off the extra pounds he’s gained, eating all those pastries and cookies Stella brings home. “What’s your mile pace these days?” he asks as we set out, headed for the trail next to the river. “Seven? Eight?”
“Six-thirty, I think?” Sometimes faster, when I’m running from the thoughts in my head. I feel a little like that this morning.
He’s already a few steps behind me. “Fuck me,” he huffs.
I slow a little. This is one area where I’ve had him since we were in high school—he’s stronger, but I’m faster. A lot faster, apparently. “Sorry.”
“I’m going to send Stella over to fatten you up,” he grumbles. “If she actually moves in, I’m so screwed.”
“Whoa,” I say. “It’s gone that far?”
“Might make sense,” he says as we reach the river’s edge and turn to the west, running toward the lake, though it’s still a few miles away. “We’re happy. She spends most nights at my place anyway. And she needs a roommate to afford a place. Right now, it’s a guy who likes to get stoned and smoke up their apartment every single fucking night—he says it makes him a better chef, what with the munchies and all. No judging, but the smell gives Stella a headache. So I’ve been asking—why shouldn’t she move in and let me be her roommate? I don’t smoke, and I’m an excellent lay.”
“Do Mom and Dad know?”
He laughs, his breath a puff of white in the morning chill. “They’re old-fashioned, you know that. They’d want us to be engaged, at least.”
“But that’s crazy, right? Getting engaged?”
He’s quiet for a minute, long enough for me to turn to him as we jog along at an easy pace—for me, at least. “Are you that out of breath, or are you seriously thinking about asking her to marry you?”
“No, not yet,” he says. “She’s only twenty-one, and we haven’t even been together a year. I’m in no hurry, and she isn’t either. At this point, she’d probably say no. But …” There’s that shit-eating grin again. “I can kind of picture it, you know? Someday.”
Oddly enough, I get it. “She’s a great girl. And she obviously loves you.”
“Not sure I deserve it, but yeah. She does.” He glances over at me. “How’s it going with Sasha?”
“Are you asking me just so you don’t have to talk?”
He rolls his eyes and gestures for me to speak. Instead, I pick up my pace a little, to make him work for it. There’s something brutally satisfying in seeing my older brother struggle to keep up with me after a lifetime of trying to hold my own. But also, I need the exertion. I need my heart to pound for some reason other than what she’s doing to me. “I’m not sure,” I finally say. “I honestly have no idea.”
“But it’s … romantic. Pretty obviously.”
“Uh. Yeah. Just don’t—”
“It’s in the vault. Not that everyone isn’t already talking about it. You’re the guy who got Sasha to say yes.” He grins. “And I thought I was the one with all the moves.”
“I wish I had a few of them,” I mumble. “I’m not completely sure she actually said yes.” At his horrified look, I hastily add, “I mean, she did. Definitely did. But last night …” I sigh. “She’s shutting me out.”
“Have you tried to talk to her about it?”
“A few times. I suck at talking.”
He laughs, then coughs. “Dude, you’re killing me.”
I slow to a slightly more reasonable clip. “I think she might suck at talking, too. Her dad …” I pause, wondering how Sasha would feel if she knew I was talking to my brother about this. But shit. I need to talk to someone about it. “Her dad is sick.”
“Damn,” says Daniel. “I guess you guys have something in common, then. You get how that feels.”
“It’s not his body that’s sick,” I say. “He has Alzheimer’s. Like, he can’t remember anything. I’ve met him a bunch of times, and every time, he asks my name. Over and over. Sometimes he thinks Sasha’s her mom. It’s bad. And he’s been wandering off. Her aunt thinks he might have to go to a home or something.”
“He’s older, then?”
“Only in his fifties, I think.”
“Fuuuck. I had no idea she was dealing with that,” he says. “She just seems so … I don’t know. Like she’s got it under control.”
“She does. That’s not an act. But she deals with a lot.” My heart aches every time I see the way she looks at her dad, love and grief all tangled up. But she never snaps at him, never rolls her eyes, never rushes him. “She’s basically a saint, I’m thinking.” Except in bed, but that’s between her and me.
Daniel laughs. Irritation pricks at me, and I’m tempted to speed up again. “What?” I ask.
“You actually sound like you think she’s some kind of higher being.”
“No,” I say, my voice turning hard. “I just admire her.”
“It’s more than that. Come on.”
“Fine. It’s more than that.”
“How much more?”
“What the fuck? You want me to give it to you in inches or centimeters?”
“No need for that tone, young man,” he says, amusement dripping from every syllable as he does a perfect imitation of our mother.
“I’ve never met anyone like her, okay? She just … she’s …”
“Special,” says Daniel.
That word is wholly inadequate. “She keeps pushing me away,” I admit. “So it doesn’t really matter what I think or feel.”
“Does she even know how you feel or what you think? Like you said, you really do suck at talking.” He gives me a playful shove that almost sends me into the railing.
I punish him by upping the pace just after we hit our halfway point and turn to head back to town. “I tried telling her. She went with me to visit Sam’s family yesterday.”
“See, that sounds serious. Why would she go along for that ride if she didn’t really care about you?”
“It’s not that she doesn’t care about me. I know she does. It’s that she keeps me at a distance, even when she lets me as close as she lets anyone.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want anything serious. I’m surprised you do.”
“I thought the same thing about you when you first started talking about Stella.”
“Okay, okay. Uncle. Slow the fuck down.” Daniel pulls up short but keeps jogging, and I stay next to him. “How long could you have gone like that?” he asks, panting.
“With no weight on my back, and with these shoes? All damn day, if I needed to.” I laugh at the look on his face. “Okay. Only about ten miles.”
“Only ten miles? Fuck you.” His eyes narrow. “And did you really just compare your feelings for Sasha to my feelings for Stella? You sure you know what you’re doing there?”
“No,” I say honestly. “Because Stella actually seems to share your feelings.”
“Maybe Sasha’s going through something,” he says. “Maybe she doesn’t think you’re up for it.”
“Thanks, bro. So nice of you to say.”
“Not what I meant, idiot,” he says. “Early on, Stella pushed me away because she didn’t think I’d want to be with someone who was going through what she was.”
“She mentioned she had an anxiety disorder.”
“That doesn’t even
begin to describe what was happening to her. She couldn’t leave her house without having a panic attack that made her feel like she was dying. And she couldn’t imagine why I’d stick around when she was such a mess.”
Could that be it? Sasha doesn’t think I want to be with someone who’s taking care of a sick parent? Does she really think I’m that shallow? And when have I ever acted like I couldn’t handle that? “How did you convince her?”
“I kept going back. Kept showing up. And I let her see how she got to me.”
“I think Sasha knows that already.” I see it in her eyes, that dark glimmer of satisfaction, when she’s got me stunned and totally under her spell. “Maybe I should do the opposite. Maybe I should make her come to me.”
“Yeah,” Daniel says dryly as we slow to a walk in the park near Main Street. “That’ll teach her.” He shoves me lightly in the back before bending over to brace his hands on his thighs. He catches his breath, then looks up at me. “You want my advice?”
“Yeah,” I say, midway through a quadricep stretch. “I actually do.”
“You’re not a player, Nate. You’re not an asshole. So don’t play games with her, especially if you really like her.”
“Maybe she’s playing games with me,” I mutter.
“Then walk away.”
I give him a look, and he chuckles. “Too late for that?”
I flip him off.
“Then be there,” he says. “Don’t be the guy who lets her push you away because you’re afraid of being hurt. You can take being hurt, right?”
I let out a weak laugh.
“Is it better or worse than letting her go?”
I sag onto a bench and look out at the river as my heart slows. “Yeah,” I say. “I can take being hurt.”
And unfortunately, I feel it coming. Sooner rather than later. I pull out my phone and text her: I missed you. I hope you got a good night’s sleep, at least. I’m around after your thing, if you want to hang.
I visit my parents for lunch. Mom’s recovering from her chemo session on Monday and can barely stay awake, so she drifts off for a nap after Dad coaxes a protein shake down her throat. He looks haggard, like he could use some sleep as well. We talk about how the Red Wings are doing, and he asks me if I’d like to go with him and a few friends to see a game in December. He says they’re all looking forward to seeing me again, and how they all want to shake my hand and thank me for my service.
I kind of hate when people do that, but it’s better now that I don’t completely blame myself for Sam’s death. I’ll always shoulder a little of it, but it’s not crushing me anymore.
I get home just before three. My heart sinks as I check my phone and see that she still hasn’t texted. I wish she hadn’t texted me this morning, either, and that Daniel hadn’t given me that advice. I could go and hang out with Nora, who actually seems to want my company. I could text Aidan and Brent and make plans to go out. I don’t have to sit around waiting for Sasha to come around—this is bullshit. This is—
My buzzer goes off, and I press the intercom. “Yeah?”
“It’s me,” she says.
I jab the button to unlock the outer door, then open my door when I hear her descending the steps. Her face is unreadable, her eyes dark. But when she reaches me, she wraps her arms around my waist and presses her head to my chest. It feels so good, like it always does. I bow my head into her hair and close my eyes. “Hi,” I whisper.
She squeezes me tighter. So tight she’s shaking. Then she pushes me inside. I manage to swing the door shut as I backtrack, letting her steer until my back hits the wall next to the table. This is like that very first night. Her hands slide to my jeans. She gets the button open in one smooth flick of her fingers, then she lowers my zipper.
“Hey. Wait. How was your—” My question ends with a gasp as she drops to her knees and takes me in her mouth. My eyes fall shut as I feel her lips and tongue, her hands on my thighs. My fingers tangle in her silky hair as I push myself deeper, getting harder by the second. My thoughts sharpen to a singular focus, all my awareness channeled to the point our bodies connect.
She works me up and down until I’m right on the verge. “I’m going to come if you don’t stop,” I rasp.
She stands up. She’s wearing a long skirt, and she reaches underneath. Her panties slide down her legs as I watch, my vision hazed with want. As soon as she steps out of them, I pick her up and set her on my table, unable to wait for another second. With the skirt hiked up around her waist, she wraps her legs around my hips, and I find my target, sliding inside her as deep as I can go. Her head falls back, and she moans, the sound sending me into a frenzy.
The table creaks as we fuck, animal and frantic. I hold onto the edge and thrust. I am not gentle. I do not hold back. She gets all my need for her, my frustration at the walls she puts up, my desperate desire to tear all of them down. She gets both my love and my rage. I yank her shirt up and shove her bra upward, needing to see as much of her as I can. She pulls my hand to her breast and bucks against me as I squeeze.
Dimly, I realize we aren’t using protection. I know I should stop, but I don’t have a single brain cell that isn’t full of her right now, not a single one that doesn’t want what’s happening. Feeling the wet heat of her, the slide of skin on skin, nothing in my entire life has felt this necessary. I want her more than I want my next breath, my next heartbeat.
Sasha clutches the table’s edge, her thighs tense and trembling. “Harder,” she whispers, and I oblige, driving into her again and again until she screams my name. I feel her body contract around me as she arches, and it’s too much for me. I come inside her, and the release makes the world drop away. She’s the only thing that’s real, and I love her, and I can’t help loving her, and I would do fucking anything for her. Anything.
Tell her, whispers a voice in my head, and it sounds a lot like my brother’s. Don’t play games.
I don’t want to play games. All I want is this. Her. Always.
She pushes herself up, and I slide out of her, spent and wobbly. I lean against the wall. She bends over and picks up her panties. Slips them back on.
“Do you want to shower?” I ask. “I kind of made a mess of you.”
“I can’t stay,” she says quickly, her cheeks red and her eyes glazed. She’s not looking at me.
Uh-oh. “Okay. I could come over after you—”
“I’ve really enjoyed our time together, Nate,” she says as she walks toward the door.
Confusion twists me up as I follow, pulling anger up from my depths. “You’ve enjoyed our time together,” I say slowly, turning the words over as their full, ugly meaning appears like a snake from under a rock. “Wait. You came over for one last fuck before you break up with me? Was that what that was?”
Her brow furrows. “Please don’t make this harder—”
“What the fuck are you doing to me, Sasha?” I shout, making her flinch. “I’m just a dick with legs?”
Tears stream from her eyes, like a dam breaking. “You don’t understand.”
“Then fucking explain!” I yell. “Fucking talk to me for once!”
Our eyes meet. “Early onset Alzheimer’s,” she says. “It’s genetic.”
That … is not what I expected her to say. “Okay …”
“I got myself tested.”
“What? When?”
Her chin trembles. “I have the gene. So that’s it. And I can’t do this. To you or to me.” She gestures between us.
“You’re twenty-eight years old,” I say. “What—are you saying you’re sick?”
“I will be,” she says, swiping at the tears on her cheeks. “I will be.”
“But is that—”
She holds up both hands to shut me up. “It’s better to stop this before it goes any further. There can’t be anything between us, Nate. I can’t.” She whirls for the door and pulls it open. “I’m so sorry.”
And before I can think of even one word to say, let
alone the ones that could keep her with me, she’s gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sasha
Aunt Cathy brings over a tuna casserole for dinner, as if she’s attending a funeral reception. I’m both the grieving family and the corpse in this scenario, I guess. She’s unfailingly cheerful and chipper, and it makes me want to stick a pin in her and see how quickly she’ll deflate.
I know it’s mean. I know she’s here because she cares. But seeing her face—worry lines hiked up by a smile that’s one second away from shattering—makes me feel a little crazy.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket as I heat up Dad’s dinner. I pull it out and peek at the screen. Nate. Again. Every time I see his name, it’s like I’ve been stabbed in the heart. I shove it back in my pocket, unanswered.
Aunt Cathy frowns. “You can answer that if you want. I could take the plate out to Tom.”
“It’s a telemarketer.”
“I saw his name on your screen, Sasha.”
I close my eyes as the microwave beeps. “Then you know I don’t want to talk to him.” I should block his number, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It would be like severing the last gossamer thread that connects us, and part of me isn’t having it.
I take the plate out of the microwave and turn around to see her giving me a pitying look. “What?”
“Shutting out people who care about you is the last thing you should be doing right now,” she says quietly.
I am so close to throwing the plate that I have to set it down on the counter. My face is hot with emotion, not just anger but shame. “I love you, and I’m so grateful for your support, but please don’t give me advice right now. You don’t know how this feels. Okay? You don’t.”
Her face crumples. “I’m so sorry that you have to go through this.”
“Stop it. Dad’s going to hear you, and it might upset him.”
She sniffles and grabs a paper towel to wipe at her nose. “Are you going to be okay tonight?”