Rhett

It’s three AM when I find myself alone in a cold bed, my arm stretched to the place where Ayla should be. There’s a glow around the door frame leading to the hallway, and I climb out of bed to see what she’s doing.

Stepping lightly down the hall, I stop when I see her in the living room, seated on the sofa beside a dim-lit lamp, flipping through a photo album I’d forgotten to destroy.

For our one-year anniversary, Damiana took every photo she could find of our relationship and had them professionally printed in chronological order in a commemorative photo album.

“What the hell are you doing?” My voice startles her, and she drops the book to the floor, eyes wide.

“Rhett.”

“What are you doing, Ayla?” I ask louder this time, words gritty in my mouth and voice booming.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you just come out here and go through my shit?” I storm toward her, ripping the album out of her hands.

“It was on the coffee table. I wasn’t snooping.” She stands, looking uneasy. “I was wide awake, and I didn’t want to wake you, so I came out here. It was just sitting there. I thought they were family photos.”

“Even if they were family photos, they’re none of your fucking business,” I say, chest rising and falling.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She holds her hands out, steady, like I’m some crazy person she has to try to escape from. And, shit, maybe I do look crazy right now. Sure as hell feels that way. Her eyes water slightly, I think. I’m not sure. My vision is shaking right now.

Ayla rifling through my things, my personal belongings, my past, fills me with a quiet rage. I don’t want my past to intersect with my present. I need things to be the way they are right now. Separate. If they intertwine, I have a feeling I’ll come undone. This—Ayla … that’s all that’s keeping me together right now.

“I should go,” she says, averting her gaze. She won’t look at me.

“It’s three AM.”

“I’ve upset you.” Ayla’s hands rub at her sides.

“Of course you’ve upset me,” I say, sighing and rubbing my eyes. “But I’m not kicking you out. Just don’t do that shit again, you understand?”

She’s quiet, studying me. And then she licks her lips and exhales.

“I promise,” she says.

A moment later, we return to my bed, where we both proceed to lie awake, staring at the ceiling fan. Seeing her with Damiana’s photos in her lap was like a shot of adrenaline straight through my chest. I won’t be sleeping the rest of the night. It’s not the same now. Something has shifted between us.

“You’re breathing hard,” she says after a bout of silence. Reaching over, she places her hand on the burning flesh below my collarbone. “And your heart. It’s beating so fast.”

I roll to my side, my back toward her.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. Again. “Please don’t be mad. I can’t go to bed if you’re mad at me. Just, try to let it go. Please. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, and go back to sleep.”

I listen as her breaths slow and her body relaxes against the mattress, and then I attempt to do the same, only I fail.

I’m wide awake, replaying my reaction, the shock on her face, the cold, hard fear in her eyes.

I shouldn’t have snapped like that, but at the time my vision went red, then black, and every repressed sensation was bubbling to the surface all at once.

“Ayla,” I whisper, but I get no response. She’s out. Rolling to my side, I move closer to her, placing my hand on her arm and preparing to utter the words I rarely say to anyone. “I’m sorry too.”

But I’m not just sorry for the way I reacted.

I’m sorry for all of this—for convincing her that a no-strings arrangement with me was a good idea because I know, in my heart of hearts, eventually I’m going to break her.

Judging by the physical reaction I had when I saw her rifling through those photos, I know now that I can’t go deep. Not with her.