“No, not me. You need to talk to someone you’ll actually listen to—someone who will help you with all this guilt.” He shuts off the stove.
I need to get out of here. I need to breathe. I grab my clutch off the coffee table, fumbling as I grab my heels. “I’ve talked to Alison, she doesn’t want to go to therapy. What do you people want from me?”
“What about you?” He’s right behind me and his concern, the pity in his voice, makes me want to disappear. “You can get help for you.”
Brushing past him, I reach for the door handle.
“Sam.” His voice is an unspoken command to stop.
I teeter in place and close my eyes.
“Don’t go. Don’t run. Stay here with me.”
I can’t. I want to melt into a puddle and disappear through the floor. The closer his footsteps are, the more my chin trembles and my throat clenches as I try to keep the memories and unwanted emotions bound and buried deep inside me. I don’t want to feel this. I don’t want him to see me crumble.
The air shifts behind me, Reilly’s body only a hairsbreadth away. “Please. It’s just me, Sam. Stay.”
I shake my head. “Why?” I whisper. What good could it possibly do?
Reilly entwines his fingers with mine; his touch almost hurts. “So that you don’t have to be alone.”
It’s like a barbed wire wraps and twists and tightens around my heart. “After everything . . . Why do you still care so much?”
“You know why.” Gently, he tugs me around, and I close my eyes. I can’t bring myself to look at him, I’m too scared—to see him and myself reflected back in his expression. I know there will be no coming back once I do. I’ll give him whatever he wants, no matter the consequences.
Taking my chin in his hand, Reilly tilts my face up and I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. I force my lips into a tight, thin line as I try to squash the surmounting emotions. I breathe in through my nose and out. In and out, willing the pain and anguish away with each breath. But every stroke of his finger against my skin, every lingering moment hurts until I can’t contain it anymore.
“Sam,” Reilly breathes, his thumb brushing over my quivering lips. His whisper holds a thousand jagged unsaid words, too much of my past. “Sam,” he says again. “Look at me.”
Something in his voice finally breaks me. I give in, maybe because it seems easier, and pry my eyes open, forcing myself to look at him. And like I can see hope in his ever-searching eyes, a light in the ever-present, suffocating darkness, a heaviness lifts from my chest and shoulders, escaping on the tears that inundate me, over the brim, heavy on my lashes. Tears are on my cheeks before I register the sound of my choked sobs and my knees give out beneath me.
I’m crying muffled, barely contained sounds that give way to gut-wrenching, body-wracking sobs more imposing and consuming than I can ever remember, the kind that make your throat burn and your body strain to the point of pain. The kind that make you think you might die from lack of air. It hurts to think, to breathe. I’ve never wanted to disappear more than I do as I’m held against Reilly’s chest, his arms wrapped around me, comforting me in the only way he can, and I vaguely wonder how I’ve gone this long without him.
I cry what feels like a lifetime of tears and let out my burden, the torment I’ve been trying to keep inside for far too long. I can feel my body letting go, like it’s awake, breathing for the first time in years.
I cry harder. I don’t bother opening my eyes because everything is blurred and I don’t need to see, I can feel. I can feel my heart pounding, can feel my body shaking and my insides twisting. It’s all I know.
Reilly pulls me up into his arms, and I’m aware that we’re moving, that I’m being lifted off the ground, and I cling to him more tightly. I don’t want him to ever let go of me. I need him, I need him more than I’ve ever needed anyone in all my life, and the fact that he’s here with me, that he’s holding me in his arms, makes me want to cry even harder. But I can’t. I can’t do anything but just be whatever it is that I am.
Twenty-Eight
Sam
Reilly’s chest slowly rises and falls against my back and his arm is comforting and protective around my middle, holding me tight as his fingers play with the ends of my tear-dampened hair, soothing me.
I’ve wanted to run, wanted to hide, wanted to float away and fight and release the anger inside me—to feel physical pain—all in the span of however many breaths, however many minutes have passed that I’ve been lying in Reilly’s arms. I’m trampled, beaten, and bloodied by a melee of wants, shoulds, and have-tos that have been battling for voice and action for years. I know what I must look like to him, how I must seem, and mortification worms its way in as my mind begins to still. But I’m too tired to be embarrassed right now. It’s like all that I’ve been holding onto, everything coiled and cruel and churning inside me, is settled—at least for now—and I just want to be.
Eventually, I open my eyes again. The room, it seems, has darkened. Reilly’s bedroom is lit only by a dim glow that emanates from the bathroom and the moonlight outside his partially draped window.
My cheeks feel like gritty sandpaper when I wipe the dampness from them.
“You thirsty?” Reilly whispers, his hold on me tightening. His breath is warm against my ear and the side of my face, and it hits me that this is the most intimate I’ve ever been with someone, the most exposed, and I’m grateful and happy it’s with him.
With a slight nod, I move to sit up. “Please.”
Reilly reaches behind him, to the side table, and grabs a tissue box. I don’t look at him as he hands it to me, not yet. I can’t.
“How about that breakfast?” he asks.
That actually sounds amazing, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face, making my cheeks ache, but I welcome it. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
“Give me a few minutes, and I’ll heat everything back up.” He’s already out of the bedroom door when I finally find the nerve to peer back at him.
He had stayed with me, had held me. I stare down at his indention on the comforter. I promise myself I’m going to eat breakfast and not worry about what just happened between us and what it means. It happened. It just is.
Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s nearly one in the morning, and I briefly wonder if I shouldn’t have at least texted Alison. But after I remind myself that she’s passed out and probably doesn’t care anyway, I decide it doesn’t matter.
Plucking a tissue from the box, I blow my nose. Once, twice for good measure, and I decide I should probably wash my face. Flinging my legs over the bed, I get to my feet, pulling my bunched dress down as far it will go, to mid-thigh, and I hobble into the bathroom. My ankle throbs, but so does my head and my heart, so I pay little attention to it.
The moment I switch the bathroom light on, I’m blinking in the glaring brightness and horrified by my reflection. “Good God.”
Reilly chuckles in the kitchen—the perks of a small house, I guess. “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” he says, loud enough so I can hear him.
“Um, I wouldn’t be so sure,” I murmur. Swollen red eyes, smeared mascara and eyeliner, a pink nose, mussed hair . . . I’m suddenly grateful it was so dark in the room and Reilly couldn’t see me like this. I run my fingers through blonde stray tangles of hair, hoping to tame some of the strands that are more crimped and knotted than curled now.
“On a scale of one to ten, how hungry are you?” Reilly calls from the kitchen. “Ten being that you just have to have bacon and one being toast, fried potatoes, and eggs is sufficient.”
My stomach feels aerated, like it’s oxidizing it’s so empty. “Though it pains me to say this, I could live without the bacon,” I say, knowing it would be another twenty minutes before we ate otherwise.
With thoughts of toast smothered in runny egg, I turn the faucet on and splash cold water on my face. It’s enlivening and makes me feel better, even though exhaustion still feels like an
invisible weighted blanket. Dabbing my face dry, I give myself a final once-over in the mirror, resigned to the fact that there’s not much more I can do about my appearance, and I flick the light off and make my way through the bedroom and into the kitchen.
Reilly pops two pieces of toast out of the toaster.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, scanning the somewhat organized mess in the kitchen. Everything pre-meltdown is still strewn around—the cutting board and knife are still on the counter, onion skin scattered about, and my impromptu chair foot-riser is pushed up against the edge of the counter, out of Reilly’s way.
Reilly’s quick in the kitchen, like he’s cooked breakfast in here hundreds of times—like he’d never left.
“You can pour yourself something to drink and take a seat.” He nods toward the living room couch. “Sorry there’s no table to sit at. I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“It’s not like you were expecting company,” I say easily. Stepping behind him, I reach for two glasses from one of the shelves. “What would you like to drink?” I say, wondering if he has any milk in the fridge.
“Uh, milk, please. There should be a fresh half gallon in there.”
Smiling, I pull out the carton of milk, taking note that other than a few beers, a couple sodas, bottles of water, bacon, a few condiments, and a package of sliced cheese and meat, there isn’t much food in there to speak of.
“Not to be bossy or anything,” I say, pouring us each a glass of cold milk, “but you might want to consider buying some fruit and maybe some vegetables the next time you’re at the store, you know, change things up a bit?”
Reilly gives me a sidelong glance as he plates our food. “Sandwiches and breakfast suit me just fine. I don’t need much.”
“I’d be happy to make a little extra dinner for you every once in a while, if you’d like a home-cooked meal to break up the processed delicacies.” I hope he knows I’m sincerely offering. I figure it’s the least I can do after not only commandeering his night but bawling all over him and eating most of what was left in his fridge.
“Thanks,” he says, his mouth quirked in a dreamy smile. “That would be nice.”
“Really?”
Reilly shrugs. “I’ve had your potato salad. And I’ve heard wonders about your fried chicken, so I’d be stupid to say no.”
I’m pleasantly surprised. “Good.”
We exchange a smile, my heart flutters a little bit and my cheeks probably flush, but I grab a couple forks and some napkins and wobble my way to the couch.
Reilly follows behind me and sets our plates down on the coffee table. With a sigh, we both plop down on the couch and get comfortable. He reaches for the remote, turning the TV back on. The zombie marathon is still on, but he doesn’t seem to care.
Reilly raises his milk glass. “Cheers,” he says, and we clink our glasses together. “Dive in.”
My stomach rumbles with anticipation, and I can’t shovel the first bite of food in my mouth fast enough.
I can feel Reilly’s gaze on me before he speaks. “When is the last time you ate something?” he asks, popping a potato into his mouth.
I think for a moment, finishing chewing. Part of me doesn’t want to answer him because I feel like he’s weighing my response, but I do anyway. “This morning,” I say. “I was really busy today.” I focus on the TV instead of at his knowing expression. “Then I had that awesome date I had to get ready for and we both know how well that turned out.” I take a few more bites and almost moan in pleasure as I sop up some of the broken egg yolk with my toast, savoring the bite. “I love food.”
“I can tell,” he says with a chuckle, and he wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I wasn’t insinuating anything.” He glances over at me. “I asked you to stop assuming things with me. You’re generally wrong.”
I squint at him over my glass as I gulp down some of my milk, taking in the sight of his smirk before I refocus on the television. A few more minutes pass, and surprisingly enough, all the boot-smashed faces and the blood and ooze that fill just about every other scene don’t tamper my appetite in the least. In fact, I’m done before Reilly takes his last bite.
After wiping my mouth off, I toss my napkin onto my empty plate and set it on the coffee table. Exhausted and my stomach full, I throw myself back against the couch and sigh in complete contentment. All I want to do is curl up into a tiny, safe little ball and pass out.
Reilly must read my mind, because he hands me the wadded-up blanket from the cushion next to him. I happily accept it. “Thanks.”
With a nod, he takes our plates into the kitchen, and by the time he comes back, I’m wrapped up and warm, my legs curled under me. My dress is riding up my thighs, but Reilly can’t see, so I don’t care. I’m not sure if I would anyway. He turns the volume down a smidge, then settles in next to me.
Like it’s second nature, Reilly’s arm wraps around me, pulling me closer, and we lie there in silence, save for the hushed screams and growls coming from the TV. That’s the last thing I register before I fall asleep.
~~~~~~
I wake as Reilly jerks in his sleep beside me. The sound of gunshots emanate from the TV and I blink a few times. Reilly’s hands twitch—a little at first and then more aggressively—and he groans. When his features pinch and he groans again, I begin to worry.
“Josh?” I try to shake him awake, but he only moans and shudders again in response. I shake him more firmly. “Josh—”
His eyelids fly open. Though my heart is racing, I give him a moment to register what’s happening. Finally he blinks.
“Are you okay? You were having a dream.”
Reilly stares at me a moment before he nods and runs his hand over his face. He’s sweating, and I wonder if it was a dream or a nightmare. “Stay here for a sec, okay? I’ll be right back.” I hobble quickly into the kitchen and dampen a hand towel. The clock on the stove reads 2:35.
Reilly is leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, when I get back to the couch. His gaze is narrowed and fixed on the wall, his eyes gleaming in the flickering darkness.
“Here,” I say and hold the damp cloth up to his face. “Do you have bad dreams a lot?” I dab some of the sweat from his brow then his temple, and then I lean over him slightly to wipe the other side of his face.
“Sometimes,” he says, his voice a grave murmur. “Sometimes they’re about my old man . . . sometimes other things.” Our eyes meet and we’re so close our noses are almost touching. “Thanks for waking me up.”
I barely nod and slowly lower the cloth from his face. “You sure you’re alright?”
He just stares at me, his eyes shifting over my face.
I wait for the nerves I always feel around him to return, especially in our close proximity, but they don’t. Something’s different now. The air between us buzzes, charged and sizzling. I nearly stop breathing when he wraps his arms around me. An unasked question grows more expectant with each of our measured breaths, until finally, Reilly leans into me, slowly but decisively, and brushes his lips against mine. His kiss is careful and soft, unlike any kiss he’s ever given me before.
I can feel everything, heightened and tingling: the gentle firmness of his lips; then the sensation of his tongue stroking mine, wet and warm; the trace of his fingers sliding down the backs of my arms; the heaviness of his breath as he inhales and exhales.
Wanting to feel the warmth of him again, the assurance of his weight, I wrap my arms around his neck, willing him nearer. His hands splay against my back, his fingertips kneading my skin as we explore the taste and feel of one another, less urgent than the other times before. I let my mind flutter away, further and further, and I know I want this, whatever it is, to never ever stop.
The moment I even consider it ending, my chest tightens and a lump forms in my throat. I try to ignore it, pulling Reilly closer, kissing him harder, fingers gripping his shoulders, silently pleading.
He stops. He straightens, and when I
open my eyes, ready to protest, I find his eyes searching my face, taking in my expression. He’s thinking, deciding something, and I squirm in his indecision, vulnerable, but I wait because even though I want this, I want him to want this as much as I do.
Reilly swallows and, like he’s made his decision, he pulls me closer again, like he needs me, like he won’t ever let me go. His lips are deft and purposeful, parting mine like it’s the most natural motion. “I love you, Sam,” he breathes against my mouth, and I still. He rests his forehead against mine. “I’ve tried not to.”
I try to shrink away from the shock of his words, but he holds me, unrelenting.
“I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you at the dock. Since you saved me.”
Searching his face, torn between looking away and losing myself in his gaze, I try to think, but I can’t. I can only feel. I didn’t know it was possible for words to hurt this much, to cut and sting as they slice into me. They sear into my soul, branding it with an unsaid promise I know he will break.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” he asks, and I know what he’s asking me.
I’m nodding before I can overthink it. I want this. I’m petrified, but I want Reilly—all of him—for as long as I can have him.
In silence, he stands, extends his hand to me, and leads me toward his bedroom. My eyes never leave the back of him as I follow, completely lost to the sound of our footsteps, in the disbelief that floods me in this moment, the feelings of how right it all seems to be.
We walk to the far side of the queen-sized bed, and Reilly pulls the gray comforter back, exposing pale sheets in the moonlight. He looks at me, perhaps trying to gauge what to do next, like I am.
I turn my back to him, gathering my hair and pulling it over my shoulder.
Carefully, Reilly unzips my dress, the searing touch of his fingers trailing down to my lower back, and he peels the dress away from my body. My eyes close of their own accord, and everything twirls insides me, my red-hot desires and the biting past a nexus of what’s to come.
Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1) Page 27