Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
But there was also the fear that even if, somehow, we wound up in bed together, would I suddenly freeze? Would my panic take over? And what could that ever be besides an experiment for him? He was straight, and as much as he liked me, I could never be what he truly wanted or needed. I had to realize that someday he’d find the one. He’d find the woman who would become his wife. I would need to be fine with that and with the resulting changes in my life. I would need to be happy for him or lose him. One was definitely worse. I had decided I would be content. I would be her dear friend, and she would never know I coveted her husband. Of course the dream was that this desire for more, even though I had no idea what precisely more could ever entail, would simply fade with time. That would be best. Because then I could truly, in my heart, be pleased for him. It was the height of selfishness to want to keep things as they were when I got everything from our relationship and he got nothing in return.
So instead of lying down on top of him like I wanted, instead of pressing my face to his nape and inhaling deeply, I turned off the lights, moved around the room, and put various items, socks, T-shirt, underwear, in the laundry hamper, hung up his coat, plugged in his phone, and then left quietly. At the front door, I checked to see if the alarm was armed, which it was, then went and poured my tea. The living room beckoned with the wooden floors, thick rugs, soft lights, and the desperately comfortable couch. I curled up and watched the snow fall, seeing it collect on the balcony, on the covered furniture and the clay firepit he’d had shipped from Sedona the last time he was there.
It was strange to think that even though I knew Gen Antonov was somewhere in the city, closer than he’d been since I was nineteen years old, that I was sitting there, enjoying the fire, thinking about my friend. Instead of being terrified of Gen, I was much more invested in figuring out what I was going to do when Colton Gates someday fell in love.
SEVEN
Idreamed that I woke up and the apartment was trashed, and I had to tell Colton he’d slept through Gen being in his home.
Two years ago, that would have terrified me. There might even have been some hyperventilating. What had changed because of therapy, and Colton, was that now I forced myself to open my eyes, lift my head, glance around, see there was nothing…and go back to sleep. At home, there was always a light on. It was easier. Normally, at Colton’s, I would wake up in the middle of the night and still be okay because the wall of windows showed either millions of stars, falling snow, or the city lights. This was Chicago, and there was always someone else awake.
Rising off the couch, still wrapped in the blanket, I shuffled over to the fireplace, turned it off, plunging the room into darkness, and walked over to the window and looked down at the front of the building. There was a CPD patrol car there, which was comforting, but I also thought, unneeded. It was always the case, early in the morning, before dawn—it seemed hard to be scared, or even concerned with nightmares, when you weren’t supposed to be up.
Heading toward my room, I heard Colton call my name.
Moving slowly, I went toward his open bedroom door and then leaned in to see if maybe he’d called out in his sleep. But the light on his nightstand was on, and he was sitting there, still, I knew, naked under the loosely wrapped quilt. I kept my eyes lifted, focused on his face so as not to admire the hard-muscled chest or the chiseled abdomen.
“You all right?” I asked him.
“Did you wrap me up in the blanket?”
I stared at him. Even half awake, logic had to prevail. Who else might it have been?
“Fine,” he griped. “Why did you do that?”
“Because a wet towel is no good for your comforter, sheets, or mattress.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“Plus, what if you got cold?”
“I keep this apartment at seventy degrees.”
“Yeah, but still, you might have gotten cold.”
“I can’t believe I passed out.”
“You were attacked on Friday. You got punched and then got stitches. Yesterday, you worked at a shelter all day and then had to deal with my shit at night. Of course you were tired. Now turn off the light, get under the covers, and go back to sleep,” I ordered, making for the door.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“You can talk to me in the morning.”