Like Them

By Janessa B. Frederick

His head, heavier than the last day he fled, falls to my collarbone. “I’m so sorry,” he utters, his trembling lips vibrating my skin.

Is this love? If this isn’t, I’ve never known it. I weave my fingers through his hair, remnants of ice chipping off against my warm flesh. That’s all I am: blood, warmth, a body, and he has all of me. And even now, I only have pieces of him.

“Don’t go,” I plead, and even though my voice is merely a whisper, it cracks.

Callused fingers flex on my exposed hip, just one more piece of me I will never keep. No words escape his blue lips as he rises, finding my waiting lips as he promises things he won’t keep. Not with words, no, I don’t deserve those, with action, as always.

He pulls away just enough to graze my nose with his tan one. “You looked beautiful in that flower shop,” he whispers, his words a beacon of hope through the dark room. His promises don’t settle in my ears or die in the smothered fire as they should. Instead, they cling to the dark walls and remain. “But your favorite flowers are irises.”

He steps away, but I catch his bare arm, tugging him back between my sore thighs. “It was our third date,” I tell him.

A dark eyebrow rises, and his ocean eyes catch in the moonlight from the kitchen window. Ending up on my kitchen counter with my past between my thighs is not how I planned on ending the night. I spent today on a date with another man, one who was kind, honest, and predictable. And now, the embodiment of unpredictable is before me.

“Roses on the third date,” he mumbles, and a smirk lifts the stubble on his chin.

I graze the dark spikes with a shaking thumb, my creamy skin well acquainted with his darker complexion. “He’s nice,” I whisper. “Well, at least he was until you knocked him into the snow.”

A low rumble climbs up his throat as he lightly kisses my neck, burying himself in me instead of revealing the truth, which is fine because I hate the truth. The truth leaves me broken. The truth is where I find myself devastated and without him.

“I made a mistake,” he drawls. “I will apologize.”

“You’ll apologize to him after what we just did?” I ask, remembering the way he felt against me merely minutes ago.

Again, of course, he pulls away, sorrow etched in every line of his face. Slowly, he removes his hand from my hip, until only one finger remains. I grip his pointer finger, the last piece of his skin that still grazes mine, terror rising in my chest.

“You’re freezing, Addie,” he urges. “Let me get a blanket.”

Reluctant, I release his finger, swallowing down the pain. I am freezing. After he knocked my date into the snow, my date, of course, fought back, ending in them both covered in it. And as it melted in the police station, it froze again immediately when we were released. Which we shouldn’t have been. Considering everything Trevor has done. My date has a clean record, but Trevor has the longest in town. Thankfully, his father is the Sheriff, and he once again got him out of trouble.

Trevor returns with three of my softest blankets and wraps them around me as I sit on the counter; the marble is cold against my skin. He retrieves his pants, slips them on, and turns to my freezer, pulling out a pack of frozen vegetables and placing them on his swollen, blue knuckles.

My eyes don’t leave his as he leans on the fridge, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “Send me his number, and I’ll explain myself. He seemed like a nice guy, Addie. A good right hook, too; he can keep you safe.”

Sliding off the counter, with fury threatening to brew in my veins, I clench onto the blankets. “I don’t want him, Trevor. I want you.”

As if he already knows how to ruin me, he takes his icy gaze from me, looking at the kitchen window instead. All the lights are off, and his dark hair is almost invisible. “I know,” he admits.

“Then why?” I snap, the anger I’ve felt for him after all these years finally spewing. “Why leave again? I want you.”

“Addie,” he whispers, anguish so clear in his tone that I almost crumble. “I don’t want you.”

Trembling, I lean against the counter, attempting to remain standing. “Excuse me?”

His gaze snaps to me again, full of madness and a plea. “I need you,” he promises. “More than I need to be happy.”

“Then we can-”

Holding up a single finger, he stops me from stepping toward him. “I need you okay, Addie. And when you’re with me, you’re not okay.”

“You love me!” Turning, I motion to the counter behind me. “I can feel it when you touch me.”

Reaching me in a single stride, he drops the vegetables and cups the back of my neck. “You’re right,” he whispers against my lips. “I love you more than I crave you. More than—” his voice carries as he unravels the tip of the folded blankets to sneak a peek at my flushed skin. “—more than this. And Addie, I think of this every second of every hour.”

Without closing the blankets, I find his gaze again, forcing it from my body. “And I love you more than you hate yourself.”

In one quick movement he releases me, and the departure is utterly painful. “You sound like my mother,” he snarls. “And look where that got her.”

His mother was hopelessly in love with the Sheriff, and never married, and currently lives alone in a crappy apartment across town. Trevor pays most of her bills, but she insists on making it alone.

“We’re not our parents,” I assert, closing the blankets to conceal myself again. “If I were my mom, I wouldn’t be here, Trevor.” My mom never fought for anything, not even me and my twin sister in the divorce. She let us go. She let us go.

I step forward until I can reach him again and place my shaking hands on the underside of his stiff jaw. “Stay. Just for tonight,” I beg.

His hand cups mine, and his eyes lighten, warmth finding its way back in. “I’ll run you a bath,” he says, gently moving my hand from his cheek.

He’s going to run me a bath. A bubble-filled, sensual bath is always his way of saying goodbye. A ghost of a smile finds my lips as a tear descends my cheek.

He’s leaving. I’ll let him. I’ll let him go.

I guess I’m more like her than I realized. And he’s more of his father than I’ve ever admitted.

And I love him, despite them.

🩷🩷🩷

Janessa B. Frederick is a 24-year-old writer at the beginning of her career. She resides in Tennessee with her husband and twin daughters. Janessa writes genre-bending romance, and promises an emotional rollercoaster while reading her words.