I had lie to him of course when I said that I had felt nothing.
When I told him the hold that he had on me was fleeting, something out of a romance novel of Harlequin or Nora Roberts. That is until, always until I tried dating again. Until I tried to forget him.
I saw him everywhere.
When I tried to date, move on from the depth that was my love for Michael. The first date I had gone on, I mustered up the will to kiss him. The first kisses on those first few dates I had gone on were like ice on my lips. When I decided to wipe away his touch, and the fires the created with the touch of someone else, those touches were never warm enough. No penetration was deep enough, and of course, I faked it. I hated for these poor saps not to have gotten their money’s worth. I believe in being a lady about most things. This is no exception.
They used me to be a pretty toy on their arms, I knew that. But I used them to forget him. I had to forget him. I wanted to be able to erase him. And if being under another woman could, would make a man forget–then me being on top of one should make me forget him.
Yet, there was more than one I had pinned under me, secure inside my body, yet I still saw his face. I still had to think about him to even reach anywhere near a climax. Once. Twice. Three times this happened to me. Dinner. Flirting. Cold kisses. Lukewarm lay. Uber home.
For months, I resisted calling him. I refused to give in to him. I fought it. I fought against every cell of myself that knew what he said was true. I belonged to him. I was his.
He owned me.
In the shower, right before my birthday in October, I heard his voice in my head. I felt his touch over me, insistent and hot as the water from the shower. I felt him. As real and warm and deep as the ocean he had taken me to when we first dated three years ago. I could only bare up against the shower wall, moaning. The sounds from my chest and throat more like a howl. Wounded and pained noises. All that was in me, needed him. Had to have him. Needed him with me again.
In leaving the shower, I wrapped the heavy dark blue towel around me, my newly dyed dark hair sticking to my caramel brown shoulders. I bit my lip as the tears rolled down my face. I had tried to will them back, afraid of what would happen if I unleashed them. I clutched my towel, rocking slightly on my Queen sized bed. I told myself not to call him. Gave myself the reasons not to call him.
It was so intense with him.
He wanted to much of me.
I wasn’t ready to commit.
And the scariest thing I had to admit was. I didn’t know how to love him, because I didn’t know to accept all he had for me. In the fear of what he wanted, I didn’t have room inside me to house all that he wanted. I wasn’t ready.
Yet trying to forget him had become inhumane. The pain of not being near him was becoming abhorrent I stared at the phone on its base, warring with my heart, logic and body. I lay there, listening to my wrist watch tick from inside the nightstand I stared at. Every second, unbearable without him. I missed him. Touching him. Tasting him. The tears rolled down the my cheeks, indistinguishable from the water still sparse on the tops of my breasts. I cried.
Naked and in the world all by myself, I cried.
It all had become too much. A year without him had become too much. I crumbled and picked up the receiver and dialed his number my reflect and memory. Once. Twice. Three times. My heart was in my chest. I was still crying. I knew then what it was like to be ripped apart. This feeling had to be it.
I had no shame. I was aching. I was prepared to cry on his answering machine. A blubbering, wounded mess on his voicemail. I closed my eyes, resigned to being without him one more day when he answered. I heard his giggle before he answered, soothing me. “I knew you would come back to me.” I heard the smirk and cockiness in his voice. I shivered so deeply I felt in my core self. “You belong to me, Ava. Where else could you go?”