I’d fallen in love with the idea of not being alone anymore.
Loneliness was my one true companion. While I accepted it as my bedfellow, confidant, and lover, life couldn’t scar me too badly because loneliness was the most painful of curses. Nothing else could compare—not destitution, not car accidents, not even the death of my dreams.
But Gil...he’d always been the one that’d promised a cure to my loneliness.
The only one.
I’d felt it when we spoke that first time in the corridor.
I’d felt it each time we fell a little deeper.
He was different to the others because he didn’t just patch up the lonely holes inside me, he filled them until they never even existed.
He completed me by just being there.
I didn’t need much.
I’d never asked for anything.
Yet on that busy street, the truth finally shattered my final dream.
Of us.
I stumbled as the hot, lacerating blade punctured my heart and the rest of my hope.
Gil’s hold kept me from falling, his gaze landing on my tears. He jerked to a halt. Once again, we were an island in a sea of pedestrians, but this time...our island was cracked and cratered by unfixable earthquakes.
I rolled my wrist, doing my best to be free of him. “I need to be alone, Gil.” I kept my gaze on the pavement, allowing fallen tears to dry on my cheeks. “Please...let me go.”
His hand fell away, his fingers curling into fists. “Olin, I—”
“No.” I shook my head, striding forward with my arms wrapped around myself. “Just...leave me alone.”
Each footstep was eternally heavy. All I wanted to do was go home, curl up on my couch, and forget I’d ever found Gilbert Clark and his painful box of colours.
We didn’t speak as I followed familiar streets, crossed roads, and bypassed buildings.
Gil trailed after me.
He didn’t leave me alone like I’d asked...escorting me to my door in silence.
* * * * *
Gil didn’t leave, standing stiff and protective while I fumbled in my handbag for my keys. His eyes skated over the grunge-covered walls and the cobwebs in the corners. The stairwell of my building wasn’t exactly five stars, but at least the tenants kept to themselves, and it was mainly a quiet place to live.
Slightly depressing, but affordable.
Inserting my key, I turned the lock but didn’t open the door. “You can go now,” I murmured, not turning around to look at him. “I’m safe here.”
He shifted, his clothing rustling with a harsh breath. “You’re not safe anywhere.”
I shrugged. “That might be, but I want to be alone.”
His large palm landed on my shoulder, shooting heat and dazzling need through me. “Olin...” His fingers squeezed in both affection and frustration. “Hate me. I deserve it. I would rather you hate me than forgive me. But...you have to let me inside.”
The thought of letting Gil trespass on my private sanctuary made my body tremble. “Please, Gil...not tonight.”
He reached around me, his front scorching my back as his hand dropped to cover mine on the handle. “He knows where you live. I can’t let you stay here.”
“This is my home.” Temper once again infected me.
“And I’ve destroyed it.” His voice was endlessly sad. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t let you be here on your own.” Pressing down on my hand, he worked the handle to unlatch the door then gently pushed me over the threshold.
I tensed as he followed me inside then closed the door behind him, flicking the lock back into place. Once secure, he sucked in a deep breath as he surveyed my home.
Strange that the last place he’d seen of mine was technically my parents. He’d watched me while I’d cooked in a fancy kitchen. He’d thanked me with his sad eyes when he’d soaked in a bath after a severe beating. He’d tiptoed through that two-story house as if he wasn’t welcome—and the reality was, he wasn’t because it wasn’t mine. It’d belonged to my parents who didn’t even know he existed.
This apartment, however.
This is mine.
I’d moved into it when my dancing dreams died, and I’d had to relocate from London. I’d had no one to couch surf on. No parents to ask for support. While my body healed from slashes and surgeries, I’d sourced it, signed the lease, paid my bond, and sparsely furnished it all on my own. It’d been hard but filled me with triumph that I’d succeeded.
I’d expected no hand outs; I’d asked for no short-cuts. I’d accepted that my life path had changed forever. What little I had, I guarded with a fierceness that knew what it felt like to lose what was most important.
I’ve lost him.
He was precious and I’d lost the war.
All over again.
Forcing myself to stay proud of my rag-tag achievements rather than dash around and try to improve on what couldn’t be improved upon, I said, “You can see no one is here. No monsters in the corners. No kidnappers in the kitchen.” I looked at the door behind him. “You don’t need to stay.”
He didn’t respond; his jaw gritted as he glanced at my threadbare couch, scruffy dining table, and the kitchen that barely fit a fridge and oven. Compared to his impressive warehouse with its industrial shelving and priceless painting equipment, my tiny one bedroom was depressingly sad.
Stalking through the small space, he didn’t say a word as his fingers traced the bench top that still held my dirty coffee cup and empty wine bottle.
I would’ve been embarrassed if I wasn’t so emotionally exhausted.
His boots carried him over the ugly carpet as he peered into the postage stamp-size bathroom and the bedroom next to it. The cream and navy floral bedspread I had was rumpled and needed making, but the gauzy fabric I’d hung from the ceiling to drape on either side gave it a slight Moroccan feel.
Marching back toward me, he muttered, “There’s no art anywhere.”
I scanned my walls, noting the bareness, the barrenness after the huge graffiti in Gil’s place.
I shrugged. “I’m not an artist.”
“You were with dance.”
I flinched. “Were being the keyword in that sentence.”
He studied me. His green eyes so piercing it was as if he could see the rehabilitation and surgeries I’d endured. The fact that I’d just been thinking about the loss of something so dear made the pain all the more acute.
His voice hovered around a whisper. “Do you miss it?”
Breaking eye contact, I kept my scarred and tattooed back straight as I kicked off my heels and padded into my bedroom. “Would you miss painting if you couldn’t do it?”
I made the mistake of looking at him, standing on the threshold of my room. He leaned against the doorframe with his ankles and arms crossed. His nonchalant pose couldn’t disguise the wash of unease and quick slip of horror.
I waited for him to make some flippant comment. Instead, he glowered at my carpet. “I wouldn’t survive. Pure and simple. It’s the only thing that keeps me going these days.”
My heart bucked in my chest. I struggled with something to say, but in the end, I had nothing. All I wanted to do was tumble to my bed and close my eyes.
“Gil...I—”