Page 23 of Letting Go

"I can do it."

"I know you can. But so can I."

She's tucked herself in now, her dark hair splayed out on the pillow, her eyes dark, her face, small and white.

I want to kiss her. Right now.

She gives up. "Okay. Tomorrow." She shifts on the pillow and her hair falls in waves, bands of jet black with folds of silver where the moonlight strikes. I am suddenly aware I'm shirtless, in boxers, my nipples are like rocks and my erection is growing. Fast and hard. Thank God it’s dark in here.

"You're beautiful," I say softly. And then I say it again, louder. "You're beautiful."

Her voice is small. "I'm not really, not on the inside where it counts.

This, this," she kind of waves her arms around in front of her body. "This is false advertising, believe me, and it goes away eventually."

"You will always be beautiful."

"You're just saying this because it’s dark in here," and when she sighs, trying to lighten the mood, my cock starts to throb.

"Can you leave the door open tonight, would you mind doing that? I just don't know if…I mean I need to know I can get out."

"Yeah, that's fine. I'll leave it open. Don't worry."

The bed isn't quaking underneath her like it was before. "You have every right to feel the way you do. You're not overreacting."

"I feel like I am." She throws her arms up and they settle down on either side on the bed. The light sheet makes a balloon, then flattens against her, revealing the even sweetness of her hips pressing against the sheet.

There's that stir in my groin again and my dick rubs high in my boxers. All I want to do is lay on top of her and put an arm around her shoulder blades and force her breasts to arch up against my chest and watch her throat get long as I send her into a place that will leave her limp. I want to bury my face in her neck, grinding my pelvis into hers. Feel her tremble with me, not from fear, but because I'm hers.

Fuck.

I clear my throat. "Okay, I better go. That door will stay open and there's no lock on my door into the hall. You'll be able to get out easily if you need to."

"Okay," she says. "Thank you."

When I settle back to bed it's nearly three-thirty. How in the hell she's going to wake up at five is beyond me.

I discover if I lay just right, with the pillow bunched just so, I can see her. In half an hour she's asleep, on her back, the sheets barely rumpled, and I watch her breathing.

Something releases in my heart—some old knot unraveling.

The next morning, I wake to a freshly made bed across from mine and the smell of turkey sausage, eggs, something yeasty, and coffee. She will have hot chocolate for any kids.

After a quick shower and shave, I check out the bolt situation. It takes a minute or two, but I manage to lift the tongue enough to release it and swing the door wide. This is a five-minute fix. Spinning the screwdriver on my Swiss Army knife a few times, the latch plate falls to the floor.

It's when I squat down to check the alignment one of the screws falls from my hand. Shit. These floorboards are old and wide. I started looking around and lift the bed skirt. There it is, nudged in between wide planks. When I reach underneath, my hand hits something.

It's a suitcase and I can tell it's packed because it doesn’t move.

Glancing around, I quickly pull the small suitcase from under her bed. It’s a cheap nylon bag, medium-sized, unzipped. It's what's inside that makes my heart pound. The contents are a checklist for someone in flight.

a bottle of blonde hair dye

makeup bag

a passport

several changes of clothes