“She’s crying. I need to check up on her.”
He nods seriously. On things like this, we get each other one hundred percent.
On my way out, I pause to say, “I’ll let you know about plans for tomorrow. We might need to celebrate later.”
“Don’t worry about it. Go see your woman.” He squeezes my shoulder, and I nod at him once before leaving.
As I’m getting onto my Ducati, however, the significance of what he said hits me. Your woman.
Anna isn’t mine.
But I have to admit I like the sound of that. A lot.
* * *
—
When I get to Anna’s building, I manage to catch the door while someone is leaving and run up the three sets of stairs to her apartment. I don’t stop to catch my breath before knocking.
She opens the door, and things move uncomfortably inside me. Her eyes are puffy and red. Her face is blotchy. She looks horrible. But at least she’s in one piece.
“You got here so fast,” she says, looking down the hall behind me with wide eyes like she’s searching for a teleportation device or something. “You didn’t
need—”
I take her in my arms and hold her tight, whispering, “I did need to.”
She’s stiff at first, but slowly relaxes against me with a long, shuddering sigh. When she presses her forehead to my neck, everything that shifted out of place upon seeing her settles back into place.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I ask.
She’s unresponsive for a long moment before she shakes her head, saying nothing, and my stomach sinks with disappointment. It’s obvious there’s something. It’s also obvious she doesn’t trust me enough to tell me, and that sucks. I tell myself it’s okay. The thing between us isn’t a thing. But my disappointment remains. I want to be someone she can tell things to. With other people, I’m that person—or I used to be, back before I became fragile in their eyes.
After standing with her by the front door for several minutes, I guide her to the couch and sit with her. I don’t know what to do, so I just hold her, sweeping my hand up and down her back.
I’m pretty sure she’s fallen asleep when she murmurs, “I don’t have energy for our third try tonight.”
“I didn’t come here to have sex with you,” I say firmly. What kind of dick does she think I am?
She turns her face to the side and looks up at me. “So today doesn’t count?”
“No.”
A faint smile touches her mouth. “Thank you. For coming.”
“I was worried.”
Sighing, she shuts her eyes. “I had therapy today.”
“Did it help?” I ask, hoping she’ll elaborate.
Her chest expands with a long, deep breath and falls. “I don’t know. It’s complicated and . . .” Her forehead wrinkles slightly. “It’s hard to talk when I’m so tired. Just saying the words . . .” She lifts her hand, and it falls limply to her lap, making the point for her.
“You can tell me later. If you want.”
She nods, and I hold her tighter as the sky turns to night, shrouding her living room in darkness. It’s not exactly comfortable. I’m still wearing my motorcycle jacket, and while the synthetic fabric is great if you wipe out during a ride, it’s definitely not lounging attire. But I like the way she’s resting on me. It satisfies needs that I wasn’t aware I had. I soak up the moment until my muscles go stiff from inaction. When I can’t take it anymore and stretch out one of my arms, her head slides a fraction down my chest.
She’s fallen asleep.