Page 3 of Call You Mine
He told me just before he gently slid his hand up my neck to hold the side of my face, his eyes boring into mine as if trying to see inside my soul.
I should’ve pulled away—put him out of his misery and told him I was looking for the opposite. That I would never bring a partner into my mess of a life.
A mess I am constantly trying to clean up.
But the way he looked at me, as if I were the only person in the world.
As if I could mean something to him without ever having to try.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his.
So I let him kiss me.
I let him think that the two of us stood a chance.
“Ava,” Anderson gently says. It almost sounds like a plea—a whisper of what I know he wants to say, but I ignore it.
I grab my purse from where I set it down just inside the bedroom door, leaving before I let him—letmyself—believe this could be anything more.
It would be so easy to strip off my clothes and fall back into his bed.
I could let him wrap his arms around me and fall asleep to the smell of his skin and the beating of his heart.
But instead, I leave, rushing to his front door, and count my breaths.
In. Out.
One.
In. Out.
Two.
They’re quick and shallow, barely a full breath, but with a number as high as seventeen, I don’t want to be wasting my whole life away, counting things that only matter because my brain tells me they do.
The dread in my chest fades as I get closer and closer to seventeen, pulling on my snow boots and hiking the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. I barely register the frigid wind of the cold, February night as I shut the door behind me,finallycounting my last deep breath and watching it dissipate in the air.
I press my back against the door when my brain presents me with a new and unwelcome intrusive thought.If you don’t check that the door is locked, someone you care about will get hurt.
Like my best friend, whose abusive ex walked right through our front door, knocking her out in front of her one-year-old daughter.
Which led to the house we lived in together burning down in flames.
And then, I almost lost her.
The memories spur me into action, reaching behind myself to press the lock symbol on the keypad and hear the automatic deadbolt engage.
But it’s not enough.
I turn back around, needing to see that the door won’t open as I turn the knob.
It’s still not enough.
I turn it a second time.
Still locked.
I turn it fifteen more times, hoping the fear will abate since I’ve completed the ritual. But it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.
