Page 53 of When We Had Forever
“Right, but why?”
His mouth twists. “You know, I actually thought he and I were making progress. But in the end, it’s always the same story. Everything’s always all about him. What I need is never actually going to matter to him.”
I frown. “So he still hates you? Wishes you were dead?”
His uninjured eye narrows. “Is that what you think?”
“Well, yeah. That’s what you told me. Last month, on the drive up from Seagrove. Remember?”
He doesn’t answer, just studies me while I dab at his wounds. Not in that open, soul-deep way, but like he’s searching for something specific.
My voice drops. “I just don’t get it. Why would he punch you after bailing you out of jail? Is he still mad about what you did to Lily?”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Despite the billowing steam, all the color drains from Michael’s cheeks. He stares, stricken, as if I’ve just slapped him across the face.
My insides quiver. “Oh, god, that didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean to make it sound like you killed her.”
I wince. I should just slapmyselfacross the face, at this point. “You know what? That didn’t come out right, either. I’m just going to shut up now.”
Michael doesn’t move. The thundering water wreathes us in fog, and I stand there, sickened by the sense that I’ve just broken him.
It certainlylookslike I have. In the seawater depths of his eyes, a jagged crevasse yawns, an empty hurt so much greater than anything I suspected he had inside of him.
Which begs the question of how he could possibly have been so openhearted with me all this time. Because now, peering down, I understand that some part of him is shattered. Smashed to bits.
Has Grayson inflicted all that damage since yesterday? Or did I simply miss it?
“Fuck your brother,” I say, incapable of thinking of anything else.
A shutter descends, whisking Michael’s pain from view. The reaction unsettles me, but he finally unfreezes. With infinite care, he sets the washcloth aside, then clasps my hands. Water tries to slip between our fingers, but I hang on.
“Promise me something.” He sounds hoarser than usual, as if he’s screamed himself raw, except he hasn’t once raised his voice.
“Anything,” I whisper, aghast at myself.
“Don’t mention Grayson ever again. Or...her.” Raw pain flashes across his features before he stows it away again. “Please. I just want to forget them both.”
I nod, mute.
Michael stands up, then spins me around and pins my hands to the glass. He nips at the back of my neck, suckles on my earlobe, runs his fingers down my sides and up around the curves of my breasts.
This time, he’s gentle enough that each touch feels like forgiveness. I welcome the absolution. Eventually, he nudges my legs apart, then clutches me close and eases into me, bringing our bodies flush. Every tender slide of flesh smooths the serrated silence, reshaping it into a blissful, coiling roar that heats me from the inside.
My eyes flutter shut. There’s him. Wet, slippery heat. Nothing else matters.
His arms tighten around me as we both go over the edge.
Afterward, he dresses and leaves to buy a new phone. He makes me promise not to open the door, and while he doesn’t say why, I know exactly who he’s trying to protect me from.
In his absence, I grow restless, plagued by the sense that something fundamental has changed and that a man I’ve never met is responsible.
Eventually, I can stand the silence no longer. I take the elevator down to the basement, where I stand by the dumpster and glare at the wreckage of the tornado picture. It lies on a mountain of refuse, its glass shattered, its frame splintered, and yet the thing still makes a valiant attempt to hypnotize me.
Fuck you, Grayson Drake, I mentally shout.You had no right.
I repeat the words until fury replaces temptation, until the tornado and the field turn my stomach.
Back upstairs, Michael returns in the early evening. He goes straight to the bedroom and changes into a pair of slacks and a dark blue button-down. “I want to take you to dinner,” he says. “Something nice.”
