The words, the judgment in them—judgment he seemed certain he had the right to possess—had my back straightening.
“This is where I live,” I agreed, my tone daring him to say more. I folded my arms and arched my brow.
His eyes flickered to my chest as I did so and I hated I felt that flicker right in between my legs.
“You shouldn’t live here,” he clipped, folding his own arms and widening his stance as if it were to reinforce the point that he had muscles, a great beard, and a penis and therefore his word was law.
I was sure that was the case with plenty of women.
And I didn’t judge them one bit.
Because it was tempting to let the beautiful man with great muscles, a greater beard, and an excellent penis—with equally excellent skills in using it—lay down whatever law he saw fit.
I had certainly fallen victim to a handsome face, pretty words, and a talented tongue.
His being the first.
Hence me not letting him lay anything. Especially me.
I wouldn’t survive it.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I returned.
His eyes hardened at my response. As if he weren’t expecting such a show from me. And I guessed he was right. I didn’t argue. Not if I could avoid it. The cold and harsh tone of my voice was foreign to me. I had an expression on my face that would likely be foreign too. It felt unnatural. Because I didn’t frown. I tried to give myself a reason to smile, to be kind, understanding and happy every day.
I truly believed happiness was a decision.
It was the hardest one to make, especially every single morning, but it’s how I lived my life.
Until now.
Because if I was going to survive this encounter, it wasn’t with the decision to be happy. It was the decision to be miserable. To be ruthless. With Heath. And most of all, myself.
“You treated me like a stranger,” he accused, instead of continuing the apartment conversation.
I wished we’d continued that conversation, because this was a lot more dangerous. But the only way through it was, well, through it.
Though I did consider running back into the loft, slamming the deadbolt, and hiding in the bathtub for the foreseeable future.
I didn’t do that.
Instead, I sank further into the persona that felt so uncomfortable.
“You took my virginity, showed me two nights of...something and then left me in the morning without so much as a goodbye,” I hissed back. “You are a stranger.”
He flinched at my words.
I tried not to let that affect me. So he had a minor physical reaction to my recounting of the event. I lived it. And I had critical physical and emotional reactions for years after.
He didn’t get to act outraged.
I paused.
Breathed.
I remembered what I’d been chasing since that night. Peace.
I’d never get it, of course. But what was the point in yelling at him? Accusing him? Spouting ugliness out into the present when I carried enough of it with me from the past? Me being angry and bitter would change nothing.
It would be giving him more of me.
He was waiting, bracing, watching me. Probably expecting more shouting. Screeching. There was something about his expression that looked like he wanted it. That he was ready to take it. Because he knew it was wrong, what he’d done.
“It’s the past,” I said, my voice little more than a whisper. “Whatever that was has happened. It’s history. And so are we. It would just be easier for all involved if we pretend it never happened.”
Lie.
Lie.
Big fat lie.
That was another thing I didn’t do. Like ever. Lie. Because I tried to act in a way that I’d want people to act toward me. Sometimes I’d tell a friend that her new hemp shoes were totally cute and that could’ve been considered a lie. But not when it didn’t hurt anyone’s peace. Plus, my abhorrence for hemp shoes was only my truth, not Marianne’s. So on the whole, I didn’t lie.
But I did it all fricking evening, with my sister, of all people.
And now to him.
It all revealed the lies I’d been telling myself all along.
“Bullshit.”
The single word echoed through the hallway.
“Excuse me?”
He didn’t blink at my tone, didn’t change his expression, this new version of him didn’t seem to have the same fluid ability as the man I’d met in a bar years before.
For a moment, I got the certainty that he’d taken something with him when he left, but he also left something too. Something I didn’t know I possessed until right now.
But of course, that was crazy. Impossible.
Wasn’t it?
“You heard me,” he said, voice mild and his indifference sweeping that thought away. “I said it’s fuckin’ bullshit.”
There was more bite in his words now.
More emotion.
Namely anger.
At me.
As if I wasn’t the one who woke up alone and confused, covered in memories of a man who had disappeared from reality.
I was the one that woke up to a note.
You will always be my Sunshine, but my life isn’t ready for that yet.
H
That was it.
The entire mother effing note.
And I hadn’t seen him for four years, yet this was him shouting at me, throwing anger at me.
“Are you fricking kidding me?” I demanded, my voice a visible snap of the last thread of my temper. “You think after a weekend four years ago we can just jump back into what we were? When what we were was forty-eight hours in a fantasy. I don’t live in a fantasy. Despite what people might tell you, or what you might tell yourself. I’ve moved on. I’m different.” I looked him up and down, hopefully keeping my mask of fury firmly intact. “And you obviously are. And this isn’t a fantasy. This is reality.” I paused, unable to banish him from my life as I had intended. Not when he was standing right in front of me. The universe put him here for a reason.
I wouldn’t survive him if I gave him my heart.
But I wouldn’t survive if I made him walk away either.
The pause yawned on as I considered my options.
“So how about we just be friends?” The words were weak and impossible to say, and even more impossible to make a reality.
Heath stepped forward, face granite. “Because I don’t have platonic feelings toward you, Sunshine,” he said, voice rough, caressing my spine and feeding a hunger between my legs. “I didn’t back then and I sure as fuck don’t now. I don’t want to be your friend. I’m gonna be your man.”
I folded my arms in frustration. Mostly at him, but also at myself for responding so viscerally to him. “You don’t know what kind of feelings you have toward me,” I hissed. “You have memories you carried through a war, through the years, just like me. And revisionist history isn’t just something that happens in politics or the corrupt education system, it’s rampant in emotional history too. So you think you know that weekend, you think you know me, but you’ve changed, tweaked when the details got fuzzy. You don’t know me for who I am. You know me from who you made me into.”
I threw the words out of desperation more than anything. And if the expression on his face was anything to go by, they hit their mark.