Page 81 of Studs Up
“It’s alright.” His voice was calm and low, and his body was warm as he held me tightly to his chest. “Breathe, sweetheart.” I obeyed, letting out the air and sucking a fresh gulp back in. My pounding heart began to slow, and I realized I was digging my fingers into his back so hard my joints hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I said. He didn’t look away. He hardly blinked as he held my eyes.
“Don’t be sorry,” he whispered.
We were in the kitchen. I looked around, shocked. It happened sometimes. The anxiety sent me into a state of flight, and I would find myself in the living room or my basement before realizing where I was.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” He had seen me in all my messy glory and wrapped me in his arms.
“It’s alright,” he said. His hand slid up my back to cup my head, and he smiled at me. “Nightmare?”
I nodded.
“What can I do?”
“You’re doing it,” I said.
“Okay.”
We stood there as my heart slowed, and he ran his hands over my body, soothing the clenched muscles. He didn’t move me until I had control of my breath and my heart wasn’t trying to race a bullet train.
He led me back to bed, pulled me into his arms, and brought the comforter up. Words were no longer necessary. He was doing it all with patience, silence, and letting me grip on to him.
It was the first time I had anyone in my bed. I bought this house after breaking up with Allen. Now Nolan was here, stroking my back and arms, pressing light kisses to my forehead and hair.
I wanted to weep at his tender devotion. This was love. I couldn’t say it, and I wasn’t even sure I could accept it if he said it. But this was love.
We had two wonderfully quiet days. We worked out together and watched movies. I introduced him to reality TV. Despite an immense amount of bitching, he seemed to be very involved in the dating lives of D-list celebrity children. I discovered that Nolan was a surprisingly good cook. I could sit on the counter and watch him make himself comfortable in my kitchen. And we had sex. A lot of sex.
It was all perfect, and the more perfect it was, the heavier my phone got. The fear that this would all be snatched away darkened the inside of me.
We didn’t talk about my nightmare. I wanted to ignore my vulnerabilities, and more specifically, I wanted to ignore the way he comforted me and did not push for an explanation.
He left before I woke. I was grateful I didn’t have to stand in my foyer and say goodbye. I wasn’t sure I would have been able to let go but waking alone was just as devastating. I was becoming attached. Deeply, irrecoverably attached.
In a very romantic move for Nolan, he left a note on his pillow.
When I unfolded it, it wasn’t a note. It was my list of getting over my bullshit. It had been on my nightstand the whole weekend. I liked having it close. He had added a step.
Step Two: Nolan is not going anywhere.
Two very stern lines had underscored anywhere. I was being ripped apart. Fantasy and reality battling in my heart. There was no winning.
I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling, praying to every single god and goddess I could think of that I could keep this secret.
My phone lay on my chest, and I waited for it to come. It didn’t come that day or the next, but it would. And I wasn’t strong enough to deal with it.
I saw it three days later when I was watering. My Oscar had been moved, and a note was taped to it. Don’t touch. Nolan left my Oscar front and center on the trophy shelf.
I took a picture of it with my finger on it. He sent back a middle finger.
Nolan
I couldn’t help the feeling that there was a piece missing. Something else beyond his fear of being discovered was battling inside his head.
The weekend we spent together had been a dream. Getting to see him in his home was a gift. Still, it felt like I didn’t quite have all of him. He still had his guard up and didn’t trust me enough to let me all the way in.
The nightmare was a peek into whatever hell was going on inside him. But he didn’t want to talk about it, and I wouldn’t force him.
