by K. Bromberg
“That first night …” he begins softly and then stops turning from me and walking toward the kitchen.
“What about it, Colton?” I follow him partway, leaning against the back of his couch. “I should have seen it then. You sleeping with me and then humiliating me by jumping out of bed like I’d burned you.”
“You did, Rylee.”
“What? What in the hell are you talking about?”
“That first night,” he continues, ignoring my comment. “After the second time,” he says, blowing out a loud breath. He continues to look at his bare feet, his hips resting against the counter, hands shoved in his pockets and discomfort rolling off him in waves. “I kissed you and asked you if you were all right.” I nod my head acknowledging him, remembering the raw honesty in that simple moment between us. “I swear to God, Rylee … I felt like you saw me. Really saw me.” He raises his eyes to meet mine and they’re swimming with emotion. “And you were sitting there, your dark hair falling all around you with that white sheet pooled around your waist...” he shakes his head before continuing “...your lips were swollen, your eyes were so wide and trusting … and I realized in that second that it meant more to me.” His voice is hoarse with emotion. “That you meant more to me, Rylee, than anything I can remember. Ever.”
I stare at him, so many things running through my head, but more than anything, his words resonate in every dark part of me that craves to be wanted, needed, and desired. At least I know why he reacted how he did. Why he showed up this morning. Hope starts to soar in me. Maybe I can do this. Maybe with time, I can prove to him that there can be more. I wring my hands to try and stifle my sudden enthusiasm.
“You scared the shit out of me, Rylee. You burned me.” He runs his hand through his hair, his eyes darkening, “And then I realized, as I do right now, that in the end I’m going to break you apart.”
“What?” I snap my head up to meet his eyes, my hopes crashing down around me. Did I just hear him correctly?
“I can’t do that to you, Rylee.” I see his fists clench as he fights his emotions. “I tried to warn you, but I’m so frickin’ drawn to you. I just can’t stay away.”
I feel schizophrenic trying to keep up with his moods. “You tell me you can’t do this, that you’ll destroy me, but then you tell me you can’t stay away even though you are the one warning me. You push me away then show up at my doorstep and give me tonight.” I walk toward him in the kitchen until I stand in front of him. “Which way is up, Colton?”
Without a word, he grabs me and pulls me against his chest, wraps his arms tightly around me, and buries his nose in my hair. I press my hands against his back and absorb his warmth, surprised by his unexpected show of emotion. His need for me is palpable. It oozes off of him and wraps its way into my soul. It takes everything I have to not tell him yes. Tell him I’ll do anything just to have a piece of him. That is how much he means to me. But my thoughts are louder than my heart. I wish that I could just quiet my head and sink into the reassuring feeling of his arms. Block out everything else.
“I’m going to hurt you, Rylee. And you already mean too much to me to do that to you.” I stiffen at his words. But despite them, he holds me tighter. I try to push away from him but his arms will not release me. I relent eventually and lay my face against his chest, inhale the smell of us mingled together, feel the coarseness of the hair on his chest, and hear the strong, steady beat of his heart. “It’s a first for me to care enough about someone to stop. But knowing it ahead of time isn’t going to stop me from doing it. And I just can’t do that to you, Rylee.” His chest heaves a long breath. “And that’s why I can’t do this anymore with you. Why we can’t …”
“But why, Colton? Why can’t you? Why can’t we?” I’m panicked now. Now that I want him, he’s telling me no. Or maybe that’s exactly why. I’m grasping at straws now.
“Look, let’s not get this confused here. I’m not and never have been the boy you bring home to mom, Ry. I’m the one you throw in her face to piss her off and show her you are asserting your independence. Let’s not make me out to be better than I am.”
I’m still not buying it. Why does he think so horribly of himself? He can repeat this crappy answer ad nauseam and I still won’t believe it. “Who did this to you?”
We’re quiet for a few moments as he mulls over my questions. Eventually he sighs. “I told you, Rylee, I’ve got a 747 of baggage.”
I push against his chest. I need to see his eyes. Need to look into them. When I do, I can see he’s hurting too. But he’s also shutting down. Putting me at arm’s distance emotionally so that it prevents further hurt in him. But what about me? I want to scream at him. What about my hurt? Why does this have to be so complicated? Why can’t I just let it be and enjoy the ride? Hope that he’ll see the real me and fall in love? Because I know that if he doesn’t face whatever trauma has made him this way, he’ll never get over it. He’ll never be able to have a normal relationship. He’s right. His 747 of baggage is going to ruin whatever chance we may have. “I’m not buying it, Colton.”
With my words, he removes his hands from my arms, now physically distancing himself from me. “I can’t give you any more, Rylee.” He looks down and then looks back up, the mask effectively in place. “This is who I am.”
Tears pool in my eyes, my voice a whisper. “And this is who I am, Colton.” When I speak those words I know. I have already started to fall for him. Warts and all. Somehow, someway, despite the short amount of time I’ve spent with him, he has penetrated that protective wall around my heart, and I’ve started the slow descent toward love. And that’s why I know I can’t do this. I can’t walk knowingly into heartbreak. I’ve been devastated once. I don’t think I can survive that again. And I know without a doubt that loving Colton and not getting love in return would devastate me.
“I guess we’re at an impasse.” His voice is gruff and he stuffs his hands in his pockets. The weight of his hands causes his jeans to hang lower on his hips. I have to physically stop myself from looking at the sexy inverted triangle of muscles that peeks over his waistband. I don’t need a reminder of what is no longer mine.
“Then I guess it’s time for you to take me home.” I avert my eyes, unable to meet his as I choke the words out.
“Rylee …” he says.
“I deserve more than this, Colton,” I whisper, raising my eyes to meet his, “and so do you.”
I can see his hands grip the kitchen counter as he digests my words, his knuckles white, and his face twisted in anguish. “Please, Rylee. Stay the night.”
I hear the desperation in his voice, know that he really means it, but I know he is asking for the wrong reasons. He is asking to ease the hurt he knows he is causing me, not because he wants to make this more than the arrangement he desires.
“We both know that’s not how this story goes.” A tear slides down my cheek. “I’m sorry I can’t be what you want me to be. Please take me home, Colton.”
The ride home is silent. Adele’s velvety voice sings softly on the radio about never finding someone like you, and deep down I feel the same way. It would be hard to compare anyone to Colton. I glance at him occasionally, watching the shadows and lights of the night play over the angles of his face. I know I am doing the right thing, self-preservation at its best, but my heart still aches at the thought of walking away from this mesmerizing man.
We arrive at my house with fewer than ten words spoken between us. Oddly, I’m still comfortable with Colton’s presence despite my inner-turmoil.
He opens my door and escorts me out with a sad half-smile on his lips. He places his hand on my lower back as we walk up the walkway. At the front door, lit by a lone porch light, I turn to him. We both say each other’s names at the same time and then smile softly at each other. The smiles never reach our eyes though. They reflect a weary sadness.
“You first,” I tell him.
He sighs and just stares at me. I want so much for him to be ab
le to express to me the emotions I can see swimming in his eyes, but I know that he’ll never get the chance to tell me. He reaches out and brushes his knuckles over my cheek with the back of his hand. I close my eyes at the sensation. When he stops, I open them back up, tears pooling in them, to meet his. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I know that his apology is for so many things. For what can never be. For what should be. For hurting me. For not being the person I need him to be. For not being able to confront whatever is in his past.
“I know.” I reach up and run my fingers over his unshaven jaw and up through his wavy hair before returning back to his face. It’s almost as if I am committing his lines and his features to memory. Something I can hold on to. For despite still having to work with him, I know that this will be the last time I’ll allow myself to touch him. Touching him will be too dangerous for my weakened heart.
I step up on my tiptoes and brush my lips gently against his. Within moments, Colton has his arms around me and is lifting me up to his level. Our eyes lock on each other. He leans into me to resume our kiss. I feel something different in it. I realize that we are saying an unspoken goodbye. All of the hurt and unspoken possibilities are thrown into the unyielding softness of our exchange. The desperation and carnal need of earlier has been replaced with a poignant resignation. We slowly end the kiss, Colton gently lowers me, my body sliding down the familiar length of his. Once my feet are on the ground, he rests his forehead against mine. Our eyes remain closed as we take in this last moment with each other.
I move my hand between our bodies and place it over his heart, our foreheads still touching. “I wish you’d explain to me why you don’t do relationships, Colton.” My voice is barely a whisper, the threat of tears evident. “Maybe I could understand you—this—better then.”
“I know,” he breathes in response. He shifts and places his trademark kiss on the tip of my nose.
This action is my undoing. Tears silently coarse down my cheeks as Colton whispers, “Goodbye,” before turning without looking back at me and hurrying down the pathway.
I can’t bear to watch him leave. I fumble clumsily with the lock before shoving the door open and slamming it shut. I lean against the door and slide down it to sit on the floor, my silent tears turning into uncontrollable sobs.
This is how Haddie finds me moments later after being woken by my less-than-graceful entrance.
THE WEEK HAS SUCKED. MY applicants for the new staff position at The House have been horrible. Unqualified. Underwhelming. Unexciting.
It might not help that my mind is not all here. I’m tired because sleep comes in short bouts interrupted by confusing nightmares of Colton and Max. My subconscious is obviously having a field day with my emotions.
I’m cranky because I’m eating everything in sight, and yet I have no desire to go run and work off all of the excess calories that I’m stuffing in my mouth to abate my misery.
I’m irritable because Haddie is watching me like a hawk, calling me every hour to check up on me, and turning off Matchbox Twenty anytime she catches me listening to it.
I’m petulant because Teddy just forwarded me an email from Tawny listing all of the events that CD Enterprises is requesting my presence at to promote our new partnership. And that means that I will have to stand side by side with Colton, the sole cause of my miserable state. Because despite the four days that have passed, nothing has helped to ease the ache radiating through my heart and soul from my last moments with Colton. I want to tell myself to get a grip, that we only knew each other a short time, but nothing works.
I still want him. I still feel him.
I’m pathetic.
The only personal contact I’ve had with him came via email the day after he dropped me off. He sent me a text saying:
Whataya Want From Me by Adam Lambert.
I listened to the song, confused by the lyrics. He’s telling me that we’re not going to happen and yet he sends me a song asking me not to give up while he works his shit out. A part of me is pleased that he’s still communicating, while another part of me is sad that he just won’t let me lick my wounds by myself. I wasn’t even going to respond until I heard the song playing on Shane’s radio. I texted back:
Numb by Usher
I was trying to tell him that until he confronts his same old modus operandi, nothing’s ever going to change, and he’s going to remain numb. He never replied, and I didn’t expect him to.
I sigh loudly, alone at the kitchen counter at The House. Zander is at a counseling session with Jackson, and the rest of the boys are at school for another two hours. I’m on my last stack of resumes . One applicant is coming for an interview, but besides her, I’ve come across no one else even close to qualified.
The muffled sound of my cell phone ringing breaks me out of my trance. I scramble frantically to pick it up, my heart racing, hoping that it might be Colton even though we have not talked since Sunday night. My mind tells me it’s not going to be him while my heart still hopes that it is.
My screen says private caller and I answer it with a breathless “Hello.”
“Rylee?”
My heart swells at the rasp of his voice. Shock has me hesitating to respond. Pride has me wanting to make sure that the hitch in my voice is absent when I finally speak. “Ace?”
“Hi, Rylee.” The warmth mixed with relief in his voice has me shaking with an undercurrent of emotions.
“Hi, Colton.” I reply, my tone matching his.
He chuckles softly at my response before silence fills the phone line. He clears his throat. “I was just calling to let you know a car will pick you up at The House on Sunday at nine-thirty.” His voice ,so full of warmth moments before, is now disembodied and official sounding.
“Oh. Okay.” I sag in my chair, overcome by disappointment that he’s just calling to reiterate the email one of his staff members sent two days ago. I can hear him breathing on the line and can hear voices in the distance.
“You still have a total of ten, right? Seven boys and three counselors?”
“Yes.” My tone is clipped, business-like. My only form of protection against him. “They are extremely excited about it.”
“Cool.”
Silence hangs in the air. I need to think of something to say so he doesn’t hang up. Despite the tension between us, knowing he is on the other end of the line is better than him not being there at all. I know my line of thinking screams “desperate,” but I don’t care. My brain scrambles to form a sentence, and right when I say his name, Colton says mine. We laugh.
“Sorry, you go first, Colton.” I try to rid my voice of the nerves that creep their way into my tone.
“How are you, Rylee?”
Miserable. Missing you. I infuse happiness into my next words, glad he’s not in front of me to read through my lie. “Good. Fine. Just busy. You know.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I’ll let you go.”
No! Not yet! My mind grasps to think of something to keep him on the phone. “Are-are you … ready for Sunday?”
“We’re getting there.” I think I hear a tinge of relief in his voice but chock it up to my imagination. “The car seems to be working great. We’ve made some adjustments to the lift/drag ratio, which seems to be working better.” I can hear the enthusiasm in his voice. “We’ll dial it in more on Sunday. And Beckett, my crew chief, thinks we need to adjust the camber, and you asked me why I don’t do relationships.”
What? Whoa! Direction change. I don’t know what to say so I just murmur, “Hmm-hmmm,” afraid that if I speak, it might reveal to him just how much I want to know, and at the same time, afraid to find out.
I can hear him sigh on the other end of the phone, and I imagine him running his hands through his hair. His voice is hushed when he finally speaks. “Let’s just say my early childhood … those years were … more fucked up than not.” I can sense his apprehension.
“Before you were adopted?” I know the answer, but it’s th
e only thing I can think to say without him thinking I feel pity for him. And silence would be even worse.
“Yes, before I was adopted. As a result … I … how do I …?” He struggles to find the right words. I hear another exhaled breath before he continues. “I sabotage anything that resembles a relationship. If things are going too well … depending on which shrink you talk to, I purposely, unknowingly, or subconsciously ruin it. Screw it up. Hurt the other person.” It all comes out in a quick jumble of words. “Just ask my poor parents.” A self-deprecating laugh slips out. “Growing up, I fucked them over more times than I care to count.”
“Oh … I … Colton—”
“I’m hardwired this way, Rylee. I’ll purposely do something to hurt you to prove that I can. To prove that you won’t stick around regardless of the consequences. To prove that I can control the situation. To avoid getting hurt.”
So many things run through my mind. Most of them are about the unspoken words he’s saying. That his history makes him test the limits of the person he’s with to prove he’s not worthy of their love. To prove they’ll leave him too. My heart aches for him and for whatever unknown thing that happened to him as a child. On the other hand, he has opened up to me some, partially answering the question I asked against his lips on my front porch.
“I told you, a 747 of baggage sweetheart.”
“It doesn’t matter, Colton.”
“Yes it does, Rylee.” He laughs nervously. “I won’t commit to anyone. It’s just easier on everyone in the long run.”
“Ace, you’re not the first guy I’ve known with commitment issues,” I joke, trying to add some levity to our conversation. But deep down I know that his inability to commit stems from something way deeper than just typical male reluctance.
I hear his nervous laugh again. “Rylee?”
“Yes?”
“I respect you and your need for the commitment and the emotion that comes with a relationship.” He pauses, silence stretching between us as he finds his next words. “I really do. I’m just not built that way … so don’t feel bad. This would’ve never worked.”