Dreams of 18(72)

“You’re here,” he says like he did the first night I showed up at the bar, his tone abraded with a touch of disbelief.

Finally, I come out of my daze.

My heart starts to beat really loudly. So loudly that it’s a wonder the windows don’t rattle. It’s going louder than I was screaming last night.

When his mouth was on my pussy.

Slowly, I get up on my knees and clutch the pillow to my chest, fist it really. Even tighter than before.

If I don’t fist something, I’m going to punch him in the face.

On second thought though, fuck it.

I am going to do some damage here. So I launch the pillow in the air. I throw it at him with all my strength and it hits him in the chest.

“Where the hell am I supposed to be?” I scream at him, my hands fisted at my sides.

He hardly bats an eyelash at my throw. All my pillow did was ruffle some of his gorgeous hair – damn him – and fell on the floor with a thud.

Although, my voice does something.

My supposed-to-be angry voice that sounded a little broken and a lot tear-thickened.

That makes him frown and study me. That gets him moving too. He crosses the threshold and comes over to stand by me.

Not only that, he stares down at me and puts his hand on my face. Or tries to before I slap his stupid hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

“You’re crying.” He states the obvious in a low, raspy tone.

“Fuck yeah, I’m crying.” I push at his chest, tears falling down my cheeks. “You left me a note. You left me a fucking note, Graham. You told me to leave like nothing happened last night. Like I didn’t tell you my secrets and you didn’t tell me yours. Like you didn’t do those things to me. Like you didn’t kiss me back.”

He clamps his jaw, his hands fisted at his sides. He’s silent but his eyes are fraught with all these things that I can’t decipher right now.

All the things that I want to know, though.

“It felt like you didn’t kiss me back for the kiss I gave you ten months ago,” I whisper, all heartsick and sore.

He exhales a tight breath and tries to cup my cheek but I push him away again.

“Let me touch you,” he says, huskily.

“No.”

“Violet,” he warns.

“No.” I fist his shirt. “You don’t get to touch me after being such an asshole. After making it all seem like a dream.”

At this, my tears fall harder. Harder than before, making me hiccup. Making me think that maybe it was all a dream.

All of it. His confession. His kisses on my mouth and between my legs.

His whispered happy birthday, baby.

God, that still wakes up goosebumps all over my body.

No one has ever wished me a happy birthday before. No one has ever even remembered it. He not only remembered it, he came back early from his date for me that night. He saved that special kiss for me all this time like it was a precious gift.

And it was.

Until he ruined it.

His eyes are piercing, as if looking into my soul, when he says, “It wasn’t a dream.”

I try to shake him, pulling at him by his shirt, but of course it’s useless. He doesn’t move. My knuckles dig into his harshly breathing chest and that’s it.

He probably doesn’t even feel that.

He doesn’t feel any of the pain I’m feeling.

“Then how come you told me to leave?” I sniffle.

“I was doing the right thing,” he grits out.

“What?”

I’m so confused. What is that supposed to mean?

He takes advantage of that. He takes advantage of my confusion and puts his hands on my cheeks. I grab his wrists and try to push him away again but he doesn’t let go.

“I can’t write poetry for you, Violet,” he rasps and my struggles come to a halt.

“What?” I say again but really, I don’t understand what he’s getting at.

His rough thumbs swipe off my tears slowly, gently as he says, “I don’t write poetry. I don’t do hearts and flowers and all that stuff, do you understand? I can’t. I’m not capable of those things.”

I frown up at him, breathing brokenly. “Okay…? So?”

“I don’t do them but you deserve them.”

“I deserve what?”

At this, he really gets frustrated with me. He grabs my face with an increased force like he wants to stamp it on my brain, whatever he’s going to say, and all I can do is hold onto his wrists and watch his impatient, anguished, pained features.

“You deserve someone who gives you his heart out of his chest. Someone who can reach into his own body with his hands and pull it out for you. Pull out that thing that beats only for you.”

My eyes pop wide and my own heart causes a ruckus in my chest, more than it already was causing. “I-I do?”

He breathes out angrily. He’s angry at me for asking that question.

“Yes,” he says sternly. “You deserve that. You deserve someone who takes you out on dates and to movies and someone who holds your hand and walks on the goddamn beach with you or whatever the fuck you want him to do. Paint your toenails and chat with you all night on the couch while eating cheap pizza. You deserve someone who wakes up every morning and gets down on his knees to thank God that you belong to him. And then he does it all over again before he goes to sleep. You deserve someone who lives in awe of you, understand?”