Read Online Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 8 by Various Authors - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Various Authors
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he's already giving his all and my fingers close around the numbingly cold metal of the gates a full ten seconds before his.
We glance at each other's flushed faces and laugh before doubling over to catch our breath. My legs are shaking as I lean my hands on my knees. Every breath is like a shard of ice in my throat and sweat cools rapidly on my flanks.
"I didn't think you'd come," I admit.
He shakes his head, incredulous at himself. "I wasn't going to. I wasn't sure you'd be here, either."
We straighten up and look at each other. He gives me a crooked grin that melts my heart, a small puddle of heat in my otherwise frozen body. He deep eyes soften as they look at me, and I know that everything I want is painted across my face. I can't hide it anymore. I want him so badly my bones ache with it.
"We need to talk," he says, and I know exactly what's coming next.
Resigned to my fate, I nod slowly, head bowed. I don't want to look at him when I hear him say that he doesn't love me.
"Not here, yeah?" He rubs his reddened fingers together. It's cold, but that feels grimly appropriate. Maybe when he's finished flaying me open and tearing my heart out I can pack it in the frozen earth to preserve it.
He leads me out of the park and down the street away from our homes. There's a little café, greasy window fogged with humidity inside. A bell over the door tinkles as we walk in. We order coffee and grab a table in the corner, pushing the laminated menus aside, hands nestled around matching cups. A thin wisp of steam rises from my drink and my blotchy fingers redden and purple as I clasp the hot ceramic, feeling the heat sting my skin.
I listen in silence as he stops squirming and gives me the speech he's probably been preparing since I kissed him. Curt's been good to him; they've been together almost a year; he's got a life and he's happy with it.
"Do you love him?" I ask, masochist to the end. "Do you love him like you loved me?"
"That wasn't love, it was a fantasy. I think I loved the idea of you: of us. What we could be."
I call him on the lie.
"Do you love me?" He challenges, turning the tables. "Are you even capable of love, do you even know what it means?" He glares at me, nostrils flaring.
Am I capable of love? The words wound, but I can't say they're unjustified. I know what I was like back then, and I haven't exactly gone out of my way to convince him that I've changed. I've been too busy hiding behind the man that I used to be.
Still, it hurts.
The pain that lanced through me at his words must have shown on my face because instantly he softens, a small notch dimpling his smooth brow and his eyes smudging at the corners. "Shit," he breathes softly. "That bad, huh?"
I drop my gaze, focusing instead on my trembling hands. I anchor them around my cup with clawed fingers, but don't dare lift it to my lips. My vision blurs and I blink rapidly, desperately trying to hide from the intensity of those beautiful bronze eyes. I don't know how to do this, I've never had to hide before. Now all I want to do is run away as fast as I can, tend my wounds in private. I wish I could take it all back but it's too late for that now, Pandora's Box is open and what spilled out was me: my guts; my soul; my bloody, aching heart.
"Please," I beg, my lips barely moving as I choke out that tiny, needy word, "it hurts."
He reaches across the table and grips my hand, almost unsettling the cup. I grip back, our knuckles white-on-red. I stare at our clasped fingers, wondering if the gesture is significant.
"I know," he sobs, before dropping my hand, standing and fleeing.
****
Two weeks with no contact from him and I'm a wreck, barely human. Outwardly I go through the motions of my sad, empty life, but inside I'm dying. Everywhere I go I see him, a symphony of parts– his hands, his nose or lips or ear. Every time a stranger looks back at me, frowning eyes that aren't bronze; aren't bronze at all. I thought I'd plumbed the depths over
We glance at each other's flushed faces and laugh before doubling over to catch our breath. My legs are shaking as I lean my hands on my knees. Every breath is like a shard of ice in my throat and sweat cools rapidly on my flanks.
"I didn't think you'd come," I admit.
He shakes his head, incredulous at himself. "I wasn't going to. I wasn't sure you'd be here, either."
We straighten up and look at each other. He gives me a crooked grin that melts my heart, a small puddle of heat in my otherwise frozen body. He deep eyes soften as they look at me, and I know that everything I want is painted across my face. I can't hide it anymore. I want him so badly my bones ache with it.
"We need to talk," he says, and I know exactly what's coming next.
Resigned to my fate, I nod slowly, head bowed. I don't want to look at him when I hear him say that he doesn't love me.
"Not here, yeah?" He rubs his reddened fingers together. It's cold, but that feels grimly appropriate. Maybe when he's finished flaying me open and tearing my heart out I can pack it in the frozen earth to preserve it.
He leads me out of the park and down the street away from our homes. There's a little café, greasy window fogged with humidity inside. A bell over the door tinkles as we walk in. We order coffee and grab a table in the corner, pushing the laminated menus aside, hands nestled around matching cups. A thin wisp of steam rises from my drink and my blotchy fingers redden and purple as I clasp the hot ceramic, feeling the heat sting my skin.
I listen in silence as he stops squirming and gives me the speech he's probably been preparing since I kissed him. Curt's been good to him; they've been together almost a year; he's got a life and he's happy with it.
"Do you love him?" I ask, masochist to the end. "Do you love him like you loved me?"
"That wasn't love, it was a fantasy. I think I loved the idea of you: of us. What we could be."
I call him on the lie.
"Do you love me?" He challenges, turning the tables. "Are you even capable of love, do you even know what it means?" He glares at me, nostrils flaring.
Am I capable of love? The words wound, but I can't say they're unjustified. I know what I was like back then, and I haven't exactly gone out of my way to convince him that I've changed. I've been too busy hiding behind the man that I used to be.
Still, it hurts.
The pain that lanced through me at his words must have shown on my face because instantly he softens, a small notch dimpling his smooth brow and his eyes smudging at the corners. "Shit," he breathes softly. "That bad, huh?"
I drop my gaze, focusing instead on my trembling hands. I anchor them around my cup with clawed fingers, but don't dare lift it to my lips. My vision blurs and I blink rapidly, desperately trying to hide from the intensity of those beautiful bronze eyes. I don't know how to do this, I've never had to hide before. Now all I want to do is run away as fast as I can, tend my wounds in private. I wish I could take it all back but it's too late for that now, Pandora's Box is open and what spilled out was me: my guts; my soul; my bloody, aching heart.
"Please," I beg, my lips barely moving as I choke out that tiny, needy word, "it hurts."
He reaches across the table and grips my hand, almost unsettling the cup. I grip back, our knuckles white-on-red. I stare at our clasped fingers, wondering if the gesture is significant.
"I know," he sobs, before dropping my hand, standing and fleeing.
****
Two weeks with no contact from him and I'm a wreck, barely human. Outwardly I go through the motions of my sad, empty life, but inside I'm dying. Everywhere I go I see him, a symphony of parts– his hands, his nose or lips or ear. Every time a stranger looks back at me, frowning eyes that aren't bronze; aren't bronze at all. I thought I'd plumbed the depths over
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