Nova
The pain in my heart is so intense that, at first, I don’t feel it everywhere else.
Then it begins to creep into other places. My knees. My shins. My palms.
I manage to tear my eyes from the photo of me, George, and Ashley, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, sand on our bare feet, waves and the setting sun in the background. I look down, and—
“Fuck.”
But it’s not me saying that, even though I’m the one with thumbtacks sticking out of my body.
I try to sit back on my heels, to find a way to stand, but I’m being jabbed all over.
And suddenly, there’s an arm wrapping around my middle, lifting me straight up and out of the tangle of my belongings, going tight around my belly and leaving my arms and legs hanging loose as Lake starts walking forward.
Pictures and notes are scattered by his bare feet and he somehow avoids the tacks when clearly, I couldn’t.
Not a surprise considering I hurtled myself toward them.
And then I’m not looking at the notes and pictures and memories.
I’m being carried into the house like I’m a stray piece of luggage.
Or Steve misbehaving.
“Sit,” Lake mutters, setting me on the counter. “Stay,” he adds, turning for the cabinets and pulling open a door. He grabs a bowl, a bunch of paper towels, and sets both at my side.
“I—”
Hazel eyes flicking to mine, their furious depths freezing me in place. “Stay,” he says again, the gruff order at odds with the gentle way he wraps his fingers around my wrist and lifts my hand toward him.
“I’m not a dog,” I mutter.
His eyes are on my palm. “You behave about as well as that demon you call a pooch.”
Outrage in my belly. “Steve is not a demon.”
He turns my hand over, still handling me in a gentle way that has my heart squeezing. “Steve is currently eating my underwear and won’t come out from beneath my bed.”
Since this is true, I don’t acknowledge it, and instead say something even more dangerous, “Which brings us back to the fact that you only have one bed.”
He carefully removes a pin from my palm, the slight pinch of pain almost immediately disappearing when he rubs his thumb lightly over the small hurt. “Who was in the picture?”
I still. “No one.”
“You launched yourself at the photo like it contains the nuclear codes.”
“It doesn’t,” I say.
Another twinge of pain as he removes another tack, setting it in the bowl next to me, the slight plink of the metal against ceramic not masking his question as he slips the photo from my fingers and moves on to my other palm. “Who’s the dude in it?”
The slight ache from him continuing to remove the pins is nothing like the agony slicing through my heart. The last twenty-four hours have been the worst of my life—and I’ve had plenty of times before now where I thought that was true.
But none of those times top going home yesterday and finding Ashley and George—
I inhale, hold it for a second, then let it out silently, trying to allow that pain to slide down my back. To tuck it away. To move forward. Forward.
But it all flashes through me again, running to Ella’s, pretending I was staying at her place for a girl’s night, sneaking back this morning and packing my stuff.
Then the drive from hell.
And the snowbank.
And now playing pincushion and being tended by a big, brooding man who can’t stand me.
And my dog is a pervert.
“He’s no one,” I say, using my pin-free hand to reach down and start plucking thumbtacks from my shin.
He moves to my other leg, begins doing the same, though he’s still moving carefully, with precise movements that speak of control instead of my herky-jerky attempts to hurry toward escape.
Which bears the question: what else does he like to control?
I shiver, but deliberately don’t meet his eyes when he looks at me for a long moment, just concentrate on the thumbtacks, on making sure they’re out of me and landing in the bowl.
“Who’s the chick in it?”
I snatch the photo, folding it in quarters and shoving it in my sweatshirt pocket. “No one.”
Plink. Plink.
Those hazel eyes lift again.
Oh look, he has one of those fancy dishdrawer dishwashers. I saw them on HGTV once and thought they were the coolest thing ever. Of course, I’d been single then and liked the idea of not having to waste water by running a full cycle for a small load—
Of course, I was single now.
Alone.
Like always.
Blegh. I’m a strong, independent woman. I relish my aloneness. I gild it and wear it like a fucking crown.
“No one, huh?” he asks, smoothing his hands over my legs, and I have to remind myself that he’s just searching for pins.
That he doesn’t like me.
But as those big, broad palms skate higher, I find it hard to remember that.
Especially with him so—
“Hey!” I exclaim, reaching for his arm but too damned slow.
He’s snaked a hand into the pocket of my hoodie and snatched the photograph out, stepping back as he unfolds it. “Doesn’t look like no one to me.”
“Give it back—” I jump off the counter and immediately squeak in pain.
He curses again, scoops me back onto the counter, lifting my foot, peering at the bottom of my cheap sneaker. “Jesus,” he mutters, plucking a tack out from the sole and dropping it into the bowl.
I loved these pushpins when I picked them out a couple of months back. They have cute sparkly butterflies topping the short silver tacks, and I used them on my bulletin board we had in our kitchen, used them to display the bright, happy moments I thought would fill my future.
Memories that are tarnished now.
Because of Ashley and George.
I loved them—the tacks and two of the most important people in my life—before today.
I hate them now—the tacks, not the people, though I want to—and not because they were poking at the bottoms of my feet, pricking into the skin of my hands, jabbing at me through my jeans, not because they hurt me.
I’m used to pain.
But I can’t stand to stare at that glittering beauty and know it’s all bullshit.
“Stay,” Lake repeats, pressing on the tops of my shoulder, dropping the unfolded picture into my lap before retracing his steps out to the garage.
I stay—better than Steve ever has.
Because when Lake walks away, he’s left the photograph on the counter and our faces are looking up at me—Ashley’s, George’s, my own—smiling like the future is limitless. And back then, it had been.
Now it’s…
Different.
Painful.
Not what I want.
But what I have to accept anyway.
There’s noise in the hall, and I look up, see Lake coming in with my bags over his shoulders, including my old duffle whose zipper had busted. It’s open, and I can see from my spot on the counter that it’s been filled back up, Lake having seen God knew what while shoving my shit back inside.
My nape prickles with embarrassment.
And shame.
But I shove it down, lean forward and search for any sparkling butterflies with sharp points ready to jab me.
When I see the floor is clear, I hop down, ignoring the sparks in Lake’s eyes as I move toward him, clutching the photo in my hand. I open my mouth, intending to thank him—something I should have done a while ago, if I’m being honest, but just then, Steve runs down the hall, moving toward me with his adorable little smooshed-in face.
I scoop him up, clutch him close. “Lake—”
He sidesteps me, sets my stuff on the counter, turns back to face me.
I open my mouth again.
“I’ve got shit to do.” An abrupt announcement as he turns away and disappears down the hall, the bedroom door shutting with a decisive click.
Leaving me alone.
With a painful, gaping wound in my chest.
Steve licks my chin.
“Right,” I whisper, hugging him close and heading for my things. “Not alone. It’s you and me, bud.”
But not even Steve can heal that hole in my heart.