by Kallysten
We drove up the slowly winding road, leaving behind tourist buses and rental cars. When we reached the very top of the canyon ridge, only two other couples were there to witness the breathtaking view into a valley of green grass and red rocks, with the ocean in the distance, fluffy clouds above us, and the glimmering arc of a rainbow forming as a small, warm rain drifted past us. It was breathtakingly beautiful, the kind of sight you see on a postcard and wonder whether it’s real or photoshopped.
I watched for a long time, Morgan’s arms wrapped around me, his chest pressed to my back, his chin resting on my shoulder. I could have taken a picture with my phone, but it didn’t feel necessary. As I’ve said before, my memory isn’t all that good, but I knew there was no way I could ever forget this moment of peace, beauty, and warmth—this moment when Morgan had felt so close to me, maybe even closer than when we made love. I remembered what he’d said my first night on the island about nature being awe-inspiring and as capable of ruthlessness as it was of beauty. If I’d needed proof, there it was.
As we drove back down, I watched Morgan, and every so often he threw a quick smile at me. I only wished I could have shown him that he, too, was a part of nature. He, too, could cause destruction but was capable of so much more. I tried to think of ways to show him, tell him, but was there anything I could do?
I was still thinking about it over dinner in a restaurant and afterward when we returned home—his home, not mine, even if I wished otherwise, even if I wished I could have called him mine.
He derailed my thoughts when he took me to the bedroom and started to undress me. I protested, but he shushed me with a kiss and promised he wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want. I was still wary, but his teasing, “I thought you trusted me?” sounded like a challenge. I let him strip me down to my panties and lay down on my stomach on the bed as he indicated.
When his hands, slick with oil, first touched my shoulders, a jolt ran through me, like static electricity discharging, making every muscle in my body tense almost painfully.
“Relax,” Morgan murmured, moving on the bed so he could nudge my legs apart and kneel between the V they formed. “Just relax, Angelina.”
I tried to, and it became easier as time passed and I grew used to the deep strokes of Morgan’s hands on my body. I don’t know what to call it other than a massage, but it felt like a lot more than that, like he was worshiping every inch of my skin, committing me to tactile memory.
I’d been to a spa with a friend once, and we’d indulged in massages, but this… this was something else. This was my lover talking to me through touch, inscribing praises and poems across my back and into the grooves between my fingers. Had anyone ever touched me there? Surely I’d have remembered it, remembered how strikingly sensual it felt and yet how normal.
When his fingers dug into my thighs, when his thumb pressed into the back of my knees, the arch of my feet, it felt as though he were reaching under my skin for the very essence of me, for those parts of me I kept hidden from the world. By the time he asked me to roll onto my back, I was halfway gone, floating on sensations.
I struggled to open my eyes and watch him: his small smile as he continued his sensual task, stroking, massaging, relaxing every inch of me, or almost. He didn’t touch my breasts, probably realizing that it would have tipped things toward sex and I had made it clear I wasn’t interested at the moment.
It was a gift he was offering me, and I understood that.
But it was also a bribe; I understood that, too.
I’d asked something of him, something very intimate, something that would bring our bodies closer together than they were in sex. He was showing me, without a single word, that his fangs needn’t come into play for that. And he was, yet again, completely missing the point.
And in that moment of peace when my body felt so light and my mind so clear, I realized that he wouldn’t get the point for one very simple reason: he didn’t want to get it, didn’t want to understand why I’d asked him to bite me, didn’t want to consider that maybe it would help him see more in me than someone he had to protect from himself—someone he could love, instead.
I let him tuck me under the duvet and welcomed his body pressing alongside mine, where my skin still thrummed with his touch. I took his hand in mine, smiled at him, and thanked him. And then I told him I needed to go back to New York.
“Go?” he said the word like he could barely comprehend its meaning. “Why?”
“Because nothing changed,” I murmured. “I left the mansion because you weren’t ready for a relationship. You still aren’t. You don’t want to be.”
His hand tightened over mine. He sounded hurt when he asked, “Are you saying what we have isn’t a relationship?”
I turned in his embrace, facing him as we both lay on our sides. I hesitated before asking a loaded question in reply to his, but really, how long could we dance around this?
“Do you love me?”
His eyes narrowed. He didn’t answer. I hadn’t expected him to.
“What we have is nice,” I said, smiling gently. “It’s sexy. It’s exciting. It’s beautiful. But it’s not enough for me. I mean, it’s enough right now, it’s enough for a little while, but it wouldn’t be enough in the long run. You’re giving me moments, and I cherish each and every one of them, but… there’s more to love. And I’m not saying that to guilt you into saying words you wouldn’t mean. It’s okay that you don’t love me. It hurts like hell, but it’s okay. I just can’t stay with you and hope some day you might love me. Either you do or you don’t. And I don’t think you do.”
I’d have given anything for him to say I was wrong, to say those words to me, not because it was what I wanted to hear but because he meant it.
He bit his lips and still didn’t say anything. I wasn’t surprised.
He drew me into his arms, and I went willingly. I don’t think either of us got much sleep that night. We just curled around each other, sometimes caressing the curve of a back or the inside of an arm, sometimes brushing our lips to a shoulder or cheek. Saying goodbye, like we’d done in New York. This time, at least to me, it felt like it’d be goodbye for good.
Very late that night, or maybe very early, he whispered one word to me.
“Stay.”
It wasn’t the word I wanted. Call me stupid—I certainly did call myself that and worse—but it wasn’t enough. I knew he wanted me, but I wanted more. I wanted more for both of us. I didn’t reply, and that was, in itself, a reply.
In the morning, I asked him to drive me to the airport. He offered to call back his private jet, which apparently was in a hangar on the Big Island. When I declined, he insisted and promised it wouldn’t take long at all. I declined again.
Do you want the truth? Here’s the truth. I was this close of changing my mind about leaving. I’d done it once already in the name of ‘better this way’ and ‘right thing to do.’ I’d been miserable away from him, and while he hadn’t said he’d been miserable too, I liked to think the easiness with which he’d welcomed me back meant he’d truly missed me. If I waited any longer, he’d ask me to stay again, and I’d cave in. I’d let him convince me that this was enough, that we could be together when he was holding back. I didn’t want him to hold back. I wanted all of him. I wanted his love.
So, rather than settling, I kissed his cheek, said goodbye, and climbed onto the first plane heading back to the continent.
*
Going back to New York by myself was just too depressing. Once I arrived in Los Angeles, I changed my connection to go visit my parents instead. After all, I had promised I’d come whenever work allowed me to. I thought about giving them a call before my flight so they’d know I was on my way and would pick me up, but what if they asked what flight I was on? I didn’t care to explain why I was flying in from California rather than New York.
The other pitfall didn’t occur to me until after I’d landed in my home town and was stepping toward the line of cabs with my c
arry-on in hand. I’d packed for a few days in Kauai. The weather here was far from being as severe as it was in New York, but sundresses and bathing suits wouldn’t work so well.
By the time I stepped onto the front porch of my childhood home, I had a story ready: the airline had lost my suitcase, and my carry-on only held toiletries and such. If my parents thought it was odd, they were too happy to see me to mention it, and anyway I still had a few old things in my room that I could wear.
The first couple of days were nice. Quiet. Calm.
And incredibly lonely.
The third day must have been when the excitement of having me home started to fade, and my parents both tried to pry. The funny thing was that they each asked the same careful questions about what was going on in my life and whether I’d seen Morgan recently—and they asked these questions when the other was out of the room, like neither wanted their spouse to know they were prying. The not so funny thing was that they expected answers, and I had none. I’ve mentioned before how I don’t like lying to them, and how I’m not any good at it. There was only so much I could deny before they each told me, flat out, that they didn’t believe me.
I sat them down. Told them I was an adult, and able to take care of myself, and that them trying to get more information out of me than I was willing to give was not an incentive for me to come back, or even stay. They promised to stop, and to their credit, they did.
It was too late, though. The stress of the past few days had done what stress usually does to my head, and I could already feel the signs of an impending migraine. I considered weathering it out in my parents’ home, but I knew they’d blame themselves for it. So, I did what I hate so much again. I lied.
On the morning of the fourth day, I took my migraine medication, packed my bags, and told them my boss needed me back in New York for an emergency. I think I managed to hide the slowly rising pain from them. Maybe they were too busy abusing Miss Delilah for her nerve in making me return from my vacation early to notice my growing discomfort. Either way, I was soon on a plane back to New York.
The altitude didn’t help with the migraine, far from it. When we landed, the pain was a steady pulse stabbing at my temples and deep behind my eyes with each of my heartbeats. My eyes narrowed against the overly bright lights, and I stumbled to the line of cabs and managed to mumble my address. The driver looked unimpressed when I doubled over and pressed my face to my arms, curled in my lap.
“If you vomit in my car, I will charge you for the clean up,” he warned, and his strident voice pierced my head like a long, incandescent needle.
He was thankfully silent for the rest of the ride—or at least, I think he was. I can’t say I remember much until the car stopped, and if he’d driven me in circles around town to let the meter go up, I’d hardly have noticed. I don’t think he did, though; he was too anxious to get me out of his cab.
I stumbled up into my building, and while I’m pretty sure one of my neighbors said hi, I have no idea who it was. The elevator going up made me feel nauseated, and I was glad to finally step out of it.
I dragged my suitcase down the hallway, my eyes half closed. I fumbled with my keys, finding the right one by touch and taking a frustratingly long moment to locate the lock and finally twist the key inside it. My bed beckoned. Tears blurred my eyes when I pushed the door open.
I walked in and only had enough time to wonder why everything was so bright even here—had I left the lights on in my haste to leave for Kauai?—and then strong arms were wrapping around me and I could do nothing but shout in fright.
“It’s me,” Morgan’s voice laughed in my ear. “Angelina, God, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just me, I…”
He fell silent when I flung my arms around his neck and burst into tears.
If I’d been in my right mind, I would have been mortified for crying like this. But with the pain, the tiredness, the sheer sorrow I’d been feeling since leaving Kauai… the dam just broke, and there was nothing I could have done to stop it.
“Angelina… What’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”
“Migraine,” I managed to stammer after a few false starts.
At once, his lips pressed to my temple, no more than a brush of cool, soothing skin right where it hurt so much.
“Bed?” he whispered, and was already drawing me forward before I answered.
The bedroom was blessedly darker, especially after he went to draw the curtains shut. I’d have crawled in bed with my coat and shoes still on—I’d done so before—but with gentle gestures, he helped me strip down to my jeans and t-shirt, then opened the sheets for me to climb in.
“Did you take your medicine?” he asked, still as quietly.
“Long enough,” I mumbled. “Can take more now.”
I barely noticed him leaving, and I have no idea how long he was gone. I suppose he was looking through my suitcase, and soon he returned with the pills that would do so little to ease my pain, along with a glass of water. He helped me take the pills, cool fingers cradling the back of my neck then easing me down again. I closed my eyes at once, unable to even voice the ‘thank you’ that sat heavy on my tongue, along with a dozen questions. There’d be time for that later.
That sluggish thought gave me pause, and I managed to open my eyes just as Morgan was walking away.
“Stay?” I murmured, drawing a hand out from under the covers to raise it toward him.
Only much later did I realize he’d asked me the same thing four nights ago, but I’m sure he heard that echo as soon as it passed my lips.
He turned back and squeezed my fingers briefly.
“I’ll be right back.”
Letting go was hard, but I felt too weak to hold on. I curled up under the covers again, eyes closed, trying not to listen to the pain pounding in my skull like a relentless drum. I didn’t hear Morgan come back, but suddenly there he was, his careful hand pulling at my shoulder until I was flat on my back. The cold wet rag he placed on my forehead was the next best thing to heaven, and I told him so, or at least I tried to.
“Shh… sleep,” he murmured, his mouth close enough to my ear that I could feel the words like caresses.
I went to sleep, aware of little more than his presence, his body pressed alongside mine. He was still there when I woke up, and despite the pain still pulsing through my head, it felt wonderful. I’d shifted in my sleep, so that I now was half sprawled against him while he sat back against the headboard.
“Hey,” I mumbled against his chest. The fabric of his shirt was so smooth, I wondered, distantly, if it was silk. It’d be in a sorry state with me pressed against it like this, one hand clutching it. I didn’t let go.
“Hey yourself,” he replied in a murmur. His fingers continued to card through my hair. “Are you feeling any better?”
I wasn’t, but his presence was lovely.
“Tons better,” I said.
“Liar.” He pressed the word like a kiss to the top of my head.
I remained quiet for a little while, keeping my eyes closed, enjoying the soothing movement of his hand in my hair, but in the end I had to ask.
“Morgan? Don’t think I want you gone or anything but… What are you doing here? I mean, why were you in my apartment?”
“I was waiting for you,” he replied in his best ‘isn’t it obvious?’ voice.
Maybe it was obvious, but cut the gal with a head-splitting migraine some slack.
“How long?”
“I took a plane three hours after you did. I figured, private jet, less time for layover, I’d be here before you. I was.”
He might even have arrived before me if I hadn’t taken a slight detour.
“So you’ve been waiting here for four days?” I asked, managing to raise my head to look at him.
His thumb stroked my cheek. In the darkness of the room, I had a hard time reading his expression, but I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Has it been four days? I didn’t notice the time passi
ng.”
Moving, talking, squinting to see him, all of it was starting to add up and exacerbate the pain. I laid my head down again on his chest, curling up once more against him.
“You’re impossible,” I mumbled.
“No, only improbable. Sleep.”
I did.
The next time I woke up, the pain had dulled to a throb, like the slow, deep notes of a bass at the very back of a soundtrack. Morgan, as far as I could tell, hadn’t moved at all, although I caught a glimpse of his cell phone; he must have found a way to distract himself.
“Hello again,” he said, still as quietly, when he realized I was awake. “How are you?”
“Better.”
“Liar.”
Why did he keep asking if he wouldn’t believe me?
“Well, my skull doesn’t feel like it’s being pried open anymore,” I said. “Just squeezed in a vice. So it is better.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of an improvement.”
His voice rumbled, unhappy and yet oddly soothing. I rubbed my cheek against his chest, snuggling him, half drifting again but not quite asleep. He went back to caressing my hair. If not for the migraine, it’d have been a wonderful moment.
Or at least, it could have been until my stomach grumbled, loudly enough to embarrass me.
“Hungry?” Morgan asked, and even without looking up, I knew he was grinning. “Are you up for some soup?”
Now I had to glance up, both eyebrows raised in surprise.
“You gonna make me soup?”
He let out a bark of quiet laughter.
“God, no. I don’t want to poison you. I’m going to go to the kitchen and warm up a bowl of the soup I had Stephen bring while you were sleeping.”
My stomach approved vehemently.
“You know,” I said, tongue in cheek, “if I was gonna fall for an older man, I should have gone for Stephen. Just his culinary talents are worth it.”