The Despair of Strangers

by Heather Topham Wood

  I shushed him. “Please don’t ruin the compliment by saying you can’t believe I could make it.”

  His laugh sounded rough, like he was out of practice. “I was going to say I can’t believe you went to the trouble. Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome,” I said tartly. He took another bite while I pushed my food around my plate. I hoped he was hungry enough to not notice I had zero appetite.

  “What happened to your hand?” he asked between bites.

  I followed the direction of his gaze; the burn had been large with a wide expanse of skin under my thumb wrapped in gauze. “I burned myself on the stove while cooking.”

  He dropped his fork, reaching over to gently grab my forearm. He turned my arm from side to side, trying to check out the area. He had no idea the feel of his hands on my skin once again left behind another burn—the invisible kind. “Should I take off the bandage to look? How bad was the burn?”

  I pulled my arm back. “I’m fine. I put some ointment on and I’ll check it later.”

  “Okay,” he said with a quick nod, although the concern remained in his eyes for a long minute after. He then looked around the kitchen before turning his attention back to me. “Did you go out shopping?”

  “No, Pamela said to send your PA because of the reporters.” I didn’t want to remind him of why the reporters were there, so I quickly added, “Taylor was super nice. You should probably give her a raise. She even brought the pumpkins and really good ones too.”

  He looked over my shoulders to the two large pumpkins set on the counter. “Why did you need pumpkins? Pumpkin pie isn’t a British dessert.”

  “Aren’t you hilarious?” I said, lifting up my chin in defiance. “We are going to carve them after dinner.”

  “Have you ever carved a pumpkin before?”

  “Well…no, but I thought it sounded like something fun for us to do together. Halloween is coming up and you don’t have any decorations out front.”

  “Well, fuck, Alyssa, at this rate, you’ll probably lose a finger if it’s anything like you cooking.”

  I laughed, smacking his arm. “You’re good at everything, so I’m sure you can teach me.”

  His expression turned serious, his smile fading. “I’m not good at everything. I’m not good at relationships. I wasn’t good to you.”

  I frowned at him, shaking my head. “I’m here as your friend, Derek. I’m here to take your mind off of things, as impossible as that may be. We don’t have to talk about us.”

  “But you wrote me, you texted me all the time. And I never responded. I had so much to say to you and I did nothing instead. Because I was scared—”

  I didn’t let him finish. “Derek, I’m serious. We can talk tomorrow if you want. I came because I want to help you feel a little less sad, at least for a bit.”

  “We can carve pumpkins and do everything else you planned, but I want you to know I’m sorry.” He didn’t elaborate on what he was sorry about. Sorry he let me go? Sorry he couldn’t love me? Sorry he didn’t call after I left?

  “Well, fine then,” I said as I noticed he was waiting for me to respond. I tried to once again lighten the mood. “If you really want to say sorry, you could cook my favorite meal next time, but it won’t be something simple like bangers and mash. Mine is Beef Wellington.”

  “Your favorite food isn’t Beef Wellington.”

  “Yes, it is. And no cheating, you have to cook from scratch.”

  “Well, let’s see if you make it through pumpkin carving in one piece and then I’ll worry about the Beef Wellington.”

  ***

  Pumpkin carving sounded more fun in theory. At least I didn’t have to feel like I was deprived an enjoyable childhood experience growing up. Getting rid of all the guts in the pumpkin was messy and since Derek didn’t have any gloves, we removed the insides by hand. Plus, I was trying to be creative with my carving and didn’t want to do the standard jack-o-lantern face.

  “Stop moving, I’m trying to copy your face on the pumpkin,” I grumbled at Derek. I had snuck a peek at his progress and he was way better at carving than me. His pumpkin had scary triangular eyes with a hooked nose and ragged teeth.

  “You made me the model for your pumpkin?” he asked with a snort.

  “Yes, see? Doesn’t it look like you?” I turned the pumpkin to face him with a smirk. My carving was horrible, all crooked circles and triangles. I suspected a five-year-old could do better.

  He couldn’t contain his laughter. “Damn, you were serious about never carving pumpkins before.”

  I frowned as I continued to hack away at the pumpkin. “We never even went trick or treating. Do you think I’m too old?”

  “Probably, but maybe we could borrow someone’s kid for you.”

  “Not sure if anyone would trust me with their kid. I don’t know anything about fun kid things.” I sighed. “Do you know where I always wanted to go?”

  “Where?”

  “Disney World. I used to tell Stassi to beg our parents to take us. I figured we had a better chance because they never seemed to refuse her. But nope, not even Stassi could convince them.” I looked back at him. “You probably hate Disney World.”

  He didn’t answer, only shaking his head. His silence made me grin in triumph. “See, I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

  “It’s just all the people,” he said with an exaggerated shudder.

  “I think you’re more of a people person than you think. You never had a problem talking to me, even before we knew each other well.”

  When we weren’t together, talking to him was one of the parts of him I missed the most. We had built that emotional connection first. I believed wholeheartedly that was one of the reasons we were fantastic together in bed.

  “I’m not good at small talk, I guess. Like I find it hard to pretend to care about people who are hardly even acquaintances. Don’t you think we devote too much of our lives talking about meaningless things?”

  “You always seem nice to your readers,” I pointed out.

  “Talking about my book is different, I guess. Because I almost feel grateful they’re bothering to read about this world I created in my head.” He shrugged, then turned his finished pumpkin to face me. “How does it look?”

  “Do you have any candles? We need the full effect,” I said. He nodded, then dug a couple of votive candles out of the kitchen cabinets. He lit them both before handing me one. After placing it inside my deformed pumpkin, I shut the lights out. “You know, my pumpkin doesn’t look half bad in the dark.”

  He didn’t answer, so I looked up from my pumpkin. He was staring at me intently in the candlelight, his gaze unwavering. I met his dark eyes, expecting him to turn away. Instead, he kept me fixed by his stare. When he didn’t say anything, I spun away, switching on the lights. “Should we watch a movie?”

  He cleared his throat before answering. “Sure, what movie did you have in mind?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Alyssa, this can’t actually be your favorite sci-fi movie? I can think of at least three dozen films that are ten times better.”

  I smacked him with a couch pillow. “You promised to give it a chance.”

  “I did,” he countered. “I’m assuming we are at the climax and I can be put out of my misery soon.”

  “Well, I like it. It’s symbolic of the high school experience,” I said haughtily. The Faculty wasn’t going over with him as well as I’d hoped. I’d seen the movie already, so I tuned out and instead disappeared in my own head. I’d been in caretaker mode since arriving. I merely concentrated on taking his mind off of Emily’s affair and the arrest of her lover. I shut off my personal feelings, not dwelling on how it felt to be with him again after weeks alone. But then he had to give me that look in the kitchen. It wasn’t a look of a broken man. It was a look of awe, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

  Nothing had changed, though, not really. I still couldn’t be with him. It would be a d
isservice to myself to hand over my heart to him. Hours earlier, he was in a drunken tailspin over Emily. Sure, Pamela made it seem like he had deep feelings for me too, but I’d never been positive over how Derek felt about me and I was still confused as ever.

  I had to remind myself Derek was vulnerable, desperate for comfort from any source. I could provide him with comfort as a friend, but it had to end there.

  Yet, I wasn’t rational when it came to Derek Walsh. Because more often than not, all I could think about was how it’d feel to have him hold me, kiss me once again. When someone kissed you like you were the air he needed to breathe, it wasn’t so easy to let go.

  As the credits played, I stood up from the couch and stretched. It was after nine and his parents were going to arrive in the early morning hours. Pamela sent me a text to let me know the Walshes were at the airport and about to board. I was glad they were rushing to his side. He needed reminders that he was loved.

  “I should go,” I said with a forced smile. He didn’t say anything, just sat watching me thoughtfully. I sidestepped the couch, pulling aside the blackout curtains to peek out front. The street was quiet once again. Unless a rogue reporter was out there, the news crews had moved on for the night. “No one is out there, which is good. Pamela said your parents should be here by seven, so hopefully it stays quiet.” When he still didn’t answer, I perched on the arm of the couch to scrutinize him. I didn’t want him to fall apart now that I was leaving. “You can call me, Derek. Even if it’s the middle of the night, I don’t care. We won’t even have to talk. I’ll stay on the phone to be with you.”

  “Why don’t you stay?” His voice was muted, low enough I strained to hear him. His intent gaze was back, willing me to look at him with just as much need.

  “Derek…” I started uncertainly. I averted my eyes because I didn’t want him to see how much I wanted to agree.

  “I missed you, Alyssa. I really fucking missed you. I know what you’re thinking. I know you assume I was drunk and sad because of her. Because she broke my heart. But that’s not true—”

  I held up a hand to stop him, narrowing my eyes. “If you think I want to hear how I’m responsible for your self-destruction you’re wrong.”

  He winced, then looked immediately contrite. “I didn’t mean to say it like that, I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you that although I didn’t call or text…I haven’t stopped wanting you. Needing you in my life. I should’ve hung onto your offer of friendship like my life depended on it, but I was stubborn.”

  Although I’d been hurt by his disappearing act, I didn’t expect it came from a place of coldness. He had feelings for me, maybe not in the intense way I loved him, but he did care. “Okay, I’ll stay. But maybe it would be better if I slept in the guestroom.”

  He nodded, although I could’ve sworn I saw a flash of hurt in his eyes. When I blinked, his expression was back to normal. His smile was grateful. “Thanks.”

  “What should we do then? How have you been sleeping? I know you fell asleep before, but maybe you should try to catch up some more.”

  “Taylor picked up a prescription last weekend for Ambien, but I haven’t taken any. I can sometimes sleep for a five-hour stretch, but then I wake up and I can’t turn my brain off.” He frowned. “But don’t worry about it honestly. Think of all the extra hours I get in my lifetime because of it.”

  I forced a laugh. “Holy shit, are you actually turning into an optimist?”

  “Well, if you consider it, most people sleep seven or eight hours a night. Over time those extra hours I’m awake start to add up to weeks and months.”

  “You should do a non-fiction book on the benefits of insomnia,” I said drily. “Should I read to you again? That seemed to help before.”

  With a nod, he stood up and headed to the stairs. I followed him up, trying to keep my heart from not pounding out of my chest. The idea of being back in the bedroom was getting to be a little bit much. We had too many memories there, moments when our bodies converged and I would become dizzy with ecstasy.

  Walking over to his dresser, he pulled out a white T-shirt. He held it out for me. “You can borrow this to sleep in.”

  My eyes grew wide. “Derek, I can sleep in my clothes.” I gazed around the room then, realizing the air smelled fresher with a hint of disinfectant. “Did you clean?”

  “After I woke up, I cleaned. You were right, it was rank in here. Pity parties smell horrendous as it turns out.” He set the shirt down on the bed before sitting on the edge. He patted the space next to him and I joined him. He was staring forward at the wall with the television when he spoke. “Did you know this house has never felt like a home until you? You with your ridiculous long baths and need for cans of Coke, you going through my office and reading to me.”

  My knee jerk reaction was to tease him back, but I had a feeling he was being serious. He sounded sad like he was truly unmoored without me. I stared at the side of his face, focusing on the rough look of his chin, the light pink of his full lips.

  His eyes were searching and I wondered what he saw. Was he thinking the same thoughts of me? Because when I looked at him, I saw all our yesterdays, zeroed in on the moments where things were perfect between us.

  I shouldn’t have reached for him. Not tonight, I told myself. Not when he was vulnerable and sad—but I believed I acted with good intentions. I loved him and he was in pain and I had the absurd idea my lips could offer him comfort.

  Before my senses could talk me out of it, I was on him. I straddled him, pressing my knees into his bed. I dragged my hands through his hair, then I found myself kissing him hard. My kiss wasn’t tentative or sweet, my mouth dispelled any notion I didn’t want him still.

  I was too caught up in the moment. Too intoxicated by not having a drop of him, then having him all at once. Seconds later, I felt him reach for me, circling my back with his arms, then pulling me to his chest.

  We fell back on the bed, but kept our mouths connected—as if we both knew disconnecting allowed reality to sneak in. When he did move his mouth off of my lips, it was only to caress my neck with his tongue. His hands pushed up the fabric of my shirt and I arched as he grazed his lips across my cleavage. When he unbuckled my bra, I told my hands to stop him. I begged my mouth to ask him to not do impossibly wonderful things to my body. But when I felt his rough skin on my bare breasts and his tongue flicking my left nipple, I was too far gone.

  His mouth felt incredible. My breasts had missed his devotion, but the rest of my body was impatient. I yanked my shorts down, quickly followed by my panties. “I need you inside of me,” I begged, taking hold of his hips.

  He paused, his eyes dark with lust, but the rest of his body coiled with tension. “Are you sure?”

  He asked, not rushing before I could change my mind. He was giving me an out, a way to leave without destroying what was left of my ravaged heart. But I couldn’t not have him. “Yes, I’m sure.” Existing without him went against my very nature and I was exhausted by the emptiness. I wouldn’t go another second without him. Even if it wasn’t the right time for us, I chose to defy destiny.

  His hands cupped my cheeks as he kissed me once again. I tried to speed up the kiss, tangle our tongues together in a lustful dance. But his kisses were reverent, soft and sweet, as if he wanted to send a message. His body wanted me. He felt thick and hard pressed against my belly. But the way he kissed me felt like his way to tell me I was adored by him.

  When he slid inside of me, I felt like I was back to the first time, the wonderment of the initial feel of him, the absolute perfection of the way he filled me up. He didn’t rush the sex. He let us linger that way for an endless minute, relishing in how our bodies seemed made for one another. He entered me deep, breathing out a broken moan as I lifted my pelvis for him. He started to rock into me that way, slow and deep.

  Before long, I was close to orgasm. I tilted my head back far, staring up at the ceiling as I became overcome with lust. Gently, he repositioned my f
ace. “Please, look at me, Alyssa.” So, I did. I watched him claim my body, making me his own with long, slow strokes. I kept eye contact, memorizing the look of how much need he had for me. I never felt more connected to a person in my entire life. I wasn’t sure who came first, but we didn’t move even after we finished. We just stayed, watching each other, not wanting to break apart.

  I wasn’t sure how long it took me to realize I was crying, tears streaming out of me. My vision blurred, his face dissolving in front of me. He didn’t say a word, just slid out of me. The lack of connection only made me cry harder, the salty tears drenching my face. I couldn’t explain my tears if he asked me, so I was grateful for the silence. I wasn’t sure if the tears were a happy release, a cleansing of all the hurt and sorrow I felt from being without him. Or if they were from the knowledge of our shared pain—a pain too searing to ever heal enough from.

  I felt the towel against my thighs. He was wiping me clean of him. I wished emotionally it was that easy. He’d been right before. Friendship had become an impossibility. After throwing the towel aside, he held me tightly, kissing my face, likely tasting my sorrow. I had come to heal him, make him feel better about a pain always far greater than my own, and here I lay next to him, completely undone.

  “You asked me what I was writing to her,” he whispered.

  Please no, I begged silently. Please don’t bring her back into our lives.

  But there was a sick truth to Pamela’s harsh proclamations from earlier—even in death Emily could never let him be happy. He paused as I let loose a broken sob. How could he steal the moment from us? From me? How could he bring Emily into the bed I had just lain with him? His voice was thick as he spoke. “You asked me what I wrote her…I wrote her I was falling in love with you.”

  His confession was unexpected. I never once thought he was feeling anything more than companionship. I knew he cared about me; he was one of the most loyal people I’d ever met. But I didn’t think it was possible for him to love me, like Emily had infected his heart incurably. I would’ve even accepted a small piece of his heart, but some love stories feel too epic, too powerful for there to be a sequel.