I DON’T SLEEP. Not a wink. I couldn’t even if I tried. Though, I don’t try, my thoughts too busy trying to understand all that has happened since the moment I spotted that unfairly gorgeous mountain of a man less than forty-eight hours ago, until the instant he bolted away from me. I’ve never felt so rejected or confused—and no matter how much I think on it, I still can’t comprehend it. He was here one moment and gone the next. He was freaking snuggling with me and then actually, literally pushing me away.
I upset him somehow. I pulled a trigger I didn’t know he had, and now he’s gone. To say this is not the way I envisioned our night going would be putting it mildly. Yet, as hurt as I am, I’m not mad. I’m more sad than anything else. It hurts me to know that whatever it is that exists between us didn’t mean enough to him for him to stay and give us a chance. I don’t mean enough to him for him to stay and give me a chance to fix whatever it is that I did.
I’ve known all along that he is a guarded man. He keeps himself hidden behind walls, and he’s quick to shut down when the conversation shifts in a direction he’s not willing to travel. Maybe I was a fool for thinking that I could convince him to trust me; but even without promising each other anything, I genuinely believed that we might be building something. Seems I was horribly wrong.
Nevertheless, in spite of the fact that Leo left me here—naked and pleading with him to stay—I find myself curled up in the bed we were meant to share, waiting. I wait for him to come back, or call, or text, or something. Against all odds, I hope. Why I’m surprised that I’m only left with his silence, I don’t know, but I am. No—not just surprised. I’m heartbroken.
I assume that some might find the ache in my chest to be uncalled for, seeing as Leo isn’t my boyfriend, we’ve never been on a date, and we barely know each other; but they’d be wrong. What Leo and I lack in the conventional, we more than make up for in other ways. Yes, our physical connection plays a big role. How could it not? Whenever we’re together, we go to this place—this place where we are bold enough and vulnerable enough to be who we are. There is freedom and honesty in our intimacy, and that’s exactly what it is. Intimate. To dumb it down to just sex isn’t fair. Furthermore, Leo and I have spent more time apart than we’ve spent together. How he could belittle that to playing nice, I just don’t get it. Not even a little.
After hours, I still feel his touch—and my body still carries the marks of his raw affection. The thought of going back home without the promise of even just his voice makes me wish I could go back in time and take back whatever it is I said that pushed him too far. The worst part is, I don’t even know what it was that tipped the scales against me. I’m not sure if it was my curiosity about where he comes from, or my desire to explore a more defined relationship with him—I don’t know! I don’t know if I’ll ever know.
I’m unaware of the passage of time as I lay in the stillness that Leo left behind. Yet, when the sun starts to rise, I know that I must, too. I don the clothing I had on yesterday, trying not to get lost in the memories of Leo taking it all off of me. Once I’m completely dressed, I step in the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. I wipe away my tear streaks, ignoring the bags under my eyes as I try and make my hair somewhat presentable. When it becomes abundantly clear that there’s no saving it without a proper shower, I simply pray it’s early enough in the morning to avoid any other guests as I make the walk of shame back to my own room.
With one last look over my shoulder, I glance into the room, swallowing the knot in my throat before I hurry out into the hallway. I stare at my feet the entire way to the elevator, and I’m relieved when I step into the empty car that takes me down. It’s a short ride, and I ensure that my trip down the hall is equally as quick. I slip into my room quietly and immediately start undressing. There’s only one way I’m going to get through this morning, and that’s with a long, hot shower.
DAD CALLS ME at eight to make sure that I’m up and about. After I let him know that I’ll be ready to go at nine, as planned, he asks if Leo will be taking us to the airport. I’m quite proud of myself for holding my tears at bay as I explain that I’ll be calling a cab to take us. He doesn’t ask questions, and I don’t bother worrying about his lack of curiosity. I’m actually extremely grateful for it.
As soon as I get off the phone with him, I ring the front desk to ask if they might be able to assist me in arranging a ride. It’s the attendant on the other end of the call who gets the pleasure of hearing me burst into a sob when she tells me that a car has already been scheduled. Apparently, it was arranged early this morning. Knowing that no one other than Leo could have done that is enough to put a crack in the flimsy armor I managed to construct around my emotions.
I apologize to the woman on the phone, then thank her for the information before I hang up. It takes me a minute to calm down. All the while, I wonder how Leo does it—how he can walk around with that shield he’s got protecting his heart. This morning, I envy him. I so wish that I could simply shut it off, block it all out—the hurt and the confusion. All of it, even the good. I want to run from it, to hide from my humiliation and pain. I want to lock away any and all of the hope that I harbored for us—but I can’t.
I feel so stupid. I should never have allowed myself to believe that we could be more. I knew that the two of us ever amounting to anything other than sex was impossible. There was a time where I honestly believed that. Then I got it twisted, somehow. I tricked myself into thinking that long distance was possible—that we’d been doing it for weeks, and that we could make it work. I listened to Corie and her romanticized idea of Leo and me, and I got stupid. Simple as that. Now, I’m paying for it. It sucks, but all I can do is endeavor to distract myself until the ache goes away. Gathering myself once more, I wipe away my tears and triple check my bag, anxious to be heading home.
WHEN HE REACHES for my hand, gently squeezing my fingers, I draw in a deep breath and close my eyes—shutting out the view of the vast, blue sky. I knew that it was only a matter of time before he said something. He loves me, after all.
I don’t resist him when he clasps my hand in both of his, holding it in his lap. I know that he’s looking at me, too, no longer content to let the mystery lie. It takes me a moment and another breath before I can return the favor of his undivided attention. When I’m certain that his awareness of my emotional state will not make me lose the grip I’ve got on my pain right here on the plane, I open my eyes and turn to look into his.
“Just tell me one thing?” he asks, his voice quiet so as not to invite any other passengers in on our conversation.
“What is it, dad?”
“Do I need to kick his ass?”
I choke out a laugh, not because he’s kidding, but because he totally would. Or, more accurately, he’d try. I’d, of course, have to put a stop to that before Leo completely laid him out, but it’s the thought that counts.
With a sigh, I shift my body a little more and rest my head on his shoulder. As he presses his cheek to the top of my head, I tell him, “It was make believe.”
“Hmm,” he mutters dubiously. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t ask him why he would doubt my assessment, knowing only one thing to be true. This is reality. Me, on a plane, going home alone—it’s always been my reality. Everything else was a fairy tale.
“He’s there. I’m here, and he’s…there,” I whisper, processing my thoughts aloud. The more I think about it, the easier it is to see, and I’m not speaking of our physical distance at all. He’s always been behind his wall. He’s always been there, and I’ve always been here—regardless of what mid-day texts and late night phone conversations might have implied. It’s never been more clear than it is now.
He said it himself—You would belong to me, baby, in every fucking way—but I. Belong. To. No one.
“Maybe he’ll come around,” dad suggests. “Unless that’s not what you want.”
“Doesn’t matter what I want, dad.”
When he doesn’t respond with words, but rather gives my hand another squeeze, allowing the conversation to come to a close, I know that he understands. In the most devastating way, he totally gets it.