K. Bromberg - Crashed

My breath catches in my throat as I come to the realization that I want this. I fucking want her. In my life—day, night, now, later—and the thought staggers me. Breaks and mends me. Tames the un-fucking-tamable. Fuckin’A.

I shake my head and laugh softly. I guess I should say A to fucking Z. And I can’t resist anymore. I sink down softly into the bed next to her and push away images of what happened the last night we lay there together.

I give into the necessity coursing through me like the adrenaline I crave. I reach out and pull her in tight against me. When I do, she rolls over in my arms so her face is nestled under my chin, her arms pressed between our chests, and the heat of her breath tickling my skin as she murmurs, “I love you, Colton.”

It’s so soft I almost don’t hear it. So quiet and sluggish that I realize she’s still asleep but it doesn’t matter, my breath stops. My pulse races and my heart constricts. I open my mouth but then close it to swallow because I feel like I just ate a mouthful of cotton. I do the only thing I possibly can. I press a kiss to the top of her head.

I want to blame it on the fucking alcohol. And I want to think that someday it might be possible to actually say those words without feeling like I’m opening old wounds just to re-infect them.

I want to have hope that normal might just be a possibility for me. That this woman curled up beside me really is my cure.

So I settle for the only words that will come, the ones I know she knows matters.

“I race you, Ry.” I press a kiss to her shoulder. “Night, baby.”

“The ceremony starts at four. You’ll be there right?”

“Yes, Mother! We’ll be there.” Shane calls out to me as he heads out the front door with a huge grin on his face, a little swagger in his step, and car keys rattling around in his hand.

“I fear we’re creating a monster.” I laugh as I look over at Colton, who has one shoulder leaned against the wall and is staring at me with a quiet intensity. I notice the dark circles still under his eyes that have been there for the last few weeks, and it saddens me he’s having nightmares again and isn’t talking to me about them. Then again he isn’t really talking to me at all about anything, other than work or the boys or the ribbon cutting ceremony later today to kick off the project. And it’s weird. It’s not as if anything is off between us, actually it’s the opposite. He’s more attentive and physical than ever before, but it feels like this is his way to make up for the fact we still haven’t talked about the miscarriage.

He asked for space and I’ve given it to him, not talking about the loss or how I’m feeling, how I’m coping. I even went so far as to not tell him about my follow-up appointment yesterday.

I get that we’re both dealing with this in our own ways. His way is to wall himself off, figure it out alone, when mine is to hold on a little tighter, need him a little more. The momentary distance between us I can handle—I know it’s temporary—but at the same time, it’s killing me to know he’s hurting. To be hurting myself when I need him and can’t ask for any more from him. Needing the connection that’s always been a constant between us.

To give him the space he asked for, when all I want to do is fix.

Late at night when I wake from dreams filled with car crashes and floors filled with blood, I watch him sleep and my mind wanders to those deep, dark thoughts that I can hide from in broad daylight. I wonder if he’s not addressing or dealing with the miscarriage because he’s worried that maybe a baby is what I want now. That maybe we’re doomed because he never will.

But if I can’t talk to him, if he changes the subject any time I try to bring it up, I can’t tell him otherwise.

And yes, while thoughts of a baby have crossed my mind, I can’t hang my hat on the idea. I can’t let myself think that I’ll be granted that post-accident miraculous chance more than once in my lifetime. Hope like that can ruin you if it’s all you’re holding on to.

But what if I’m hanging on to the hope that he’ll talk to me—come back to me—rather than slowly slip away and through my fingers? Won’t that hope ruin me too? Becks has told me to sit tight, that Colton’s figuring out his shit as much as he can tell from their years of friendship, but to not let him pull too far away. How in the hell am I supposed to know exactly how far is too far?

I need him to need me as much as I need him while I go through the emotions of losing a piece of something that was uniquely ours … and the fact that he doesn’t, kills me. Yes, his arms are wrapped around me at night while we sleep, but his mind is elsewhere. Lost perhaps in his endless texts and hushed conversations as of late. The ones that unnerve me, despite knowing deep down, he’s not cheating on me.

But he’s hiding something, dealing with something, and it’s without me when I need him to help me deal with this.

I try to tell myself it’s the lack of our physical connection that’s making me read into everything way too much. Over analyzing everything. While I lie in his arms every night, pulled tight against his chest exactly where I long to be, we’ve yet to make love since coming back from the hospital. We kiss and when I try to deepen it, move my hands down his body and entice him to want me like I crave him, he’ll cuff my wrists and tell me to wait until I feel better, despite me telling him I’m not hurt and that I’m perfectly fine. That I want to feel him in me, connecting with me, taking me again.

The rejection stings something fierce because I know Colton—know the virile, physicality he needs when he’s hurting—so why isn’t he taking it, taking me, if he’s in the pain I see rampant in his eyes?

I shake myself from my thoughts and focus on the emerald eyes locked onto mine. The man I love. The man I fear like hell is slipping away from me.

“A monster? No,” he says with a shake of his head and a smile tilting up the left corner of his mouth so his dimple deepens. “A teenager on the loose? Most definitely.”

I smile at him as he closes the distance between us, free to touch me since the rest of the boys are at baseball practice and will meet us at the ribbon cutting afterward. “You okay?” I ask him, probably for the umpteenth time in the past week.

“Yeah, I’m fine. You?”

“Mmm-hmm.” And so goes our usual thrice daily conversation—at least. Our affirmation that everything is all right even though everything feels so very different. “Colton …” My voice fades as I lose the courage to ask him more.

He senses my hesitation and reaches out to cup the side of my face, his thumb rubbing gently over my cheek. I close my eyes and absorb the resonance of his touch because it’s so much more than just skin to skin. It vibrates through me and delves into every fiber of my being, seeping into places unknown and forever stamping them with his presence, ruining me for anyone else ever again with invisible tattoos.

When I open my eyes, his are front and center in my line of sight. “Hey, quit worrying. Everything’s going to be okay. We’re okay.” He swallows and lowers his eyes before bringing them back up to mine. “I’m just trying to figure out my shit so it doesn’t affect us.”

“But—” My question is cut off when his lips meet mine. It’s a soft sigh of a kiss that he slowly deepens when he slips his tongue between my lips to dance in a slow entanglement with mine. I taste need laced with desire, but all my head can think about is why won’t he act on it?

I move my hands up so my fingers can twist in the hair curling over his collar and tell my mind to shut up, tell it to quiet down so I can enjoy this moment, enjoy him. I feel the tears well as the tenderness behind his touch overwhelms me. As if I’m fragile and will break.