The Art of Starting Over

Chapter 61 - Veracity Part 2

Our eyes meet across the room. I can tell he's been pacing around anxiously all night, waiting for me to come home. The mixture of relief and suspense is instantly visible in his eyes, the lines on his forehead and around his mouth, his clenched fists. He's trying to read me but for once, he can't and I can tell it's making his head spin.

My legs want to run to him, my hands want to touch him and my lips want to kiss him until he tells me that none of it is true. None of it ever happened.

But then I remember how Sosa's hands have been all over his chest, my favourite place in the world. And her lips have been all over his, taking from him the best anaesthetic I have ever had.

Shaun was right. I love Jeremy. I've loved him for a very long time and didn't even realise it. And now the crushing pain is making sure that I don't doubt it. I let him push his way into my heart and now I'm going to have to push him out of it before he breaks it beyond repair. If I thought it hurt when he tried to keep me away, I couldn't have been more wrong. That wasn't pain. That was nothing. A small thump in the arm that may have left a tiny bruise. A warning at most.

This is pain. This is wreckage. A single tear falls down my cheek as I realise how excruciating this is going to be.

Jeremy is on me before I can wipe it away, his blue eyes vulnerable and helpless.

"No, Ally! Don't cry! Not because of me," he says, his strong deep voice breaking mid-sentence. His hands wander aimlessly on my face and neck, lips trembling, not even trying to hide the agony my cold front causes him. "Ally," he whispers, his mouth so close to mine that our lips brush together lightly.

"No!" I say sternly, as the want and repulsion run equally through my body. "I can't, Jeremy."

"Let's talk about this."

"What is there to talk about?" I ask taking a step back. "You were right. I am too young. I didn't know anything. I thought I could..."

"You thought you could what?" he urges when I don't finish my sentence. "I told you this isn't a game for me."

"I don't know! I don't know what I thought I could do, but I can't! Okay? I'm not ready! I'm not ready for this, for you! I don't want this. I'm not..." I pause, trying to structure my thoughts into words. "We haven't even begun to try and figure this out and I already feel like I'm losing you. And I can't exactly afford to lose you, Jer."

"You won't lose me," he interjects. "I won't let that happen."

His face is grave and serious. I want to reach out to him so badly but I know that lowering my guard around him will only cloud my judgement. I can't let that happen again. Giving in to him will only ease the pain for a moment, maybe two, lifting me up to an implausible high only to make the fall even greater.

I turn away from him hoping this will make it easier for me to keep my resolve but I can't get away from his scent, his warmth, the sheer effect of his presence.

My eyes fall on a bottle of whiskey. More than a third of it empty. There is a glass next to it with just a single ice cube that's slowly melting.

"What are you afraid of?" he asks quietly. "Because I know what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid of you hating me. It's that simple. If only you knew how afraid I am of waking up every morning and going to sleep every night knowing that you hate me because of what I did, you would understand why I hid this from you."

"I don't!" I say quickly, another tear sliding down my cheek. I wish I did. But I can't. I don't think I can ever hate Jeremy James Cordina. "I can't."

"Good. That's good. It's more than I deserve anyway."

His words upset me more than they should and before I can stop myself, I respond, "No, it's not good! None of this is good!"

He draws in a ragged breath, he puts his hands into the front pockets and his fingers clench to form a fist as he rocks on the balls of his feet.

"Come on, Jer, look at us!" I go on earnestly. "We have one argument and the whiskey is out! I run off into the night like a mad woman... We're not even dating!"

He looks at me deliberately as he mulls over my words. I cross my arms pretending this will shield me from the irresistible pull I'm feeling towards him as I stare the ugly truth in the face. I try to push away memories of just a few hours ago when I was so deeply nested in him that it was impossible to figure out where I finished and he began.

This is it. We promised till after dinner and that is exactly what we got.

"I'm not going to pretend I'm good for you. I told you a hundred times that I'm not. And you've seen for yourself how bad it can get. We've always argued, Ally. We always will. It doesn't change what we feel for each other. I know I hurt you so many times but that's because I don't know how to act around you. I'm sorry, I... You... Christ!" He stops, rubbing his eyes in frustration as his words fall short of expressing what he is feeling.

"You keep saying that! That you're sorry and you don't want to hurt me but you still do! You always will because..."

Because I love you and every little thing you do will hurt like hell.

"I can't make you believe me," he says finally, "but I swear, I'll do my best every day to make you understand."

And then he steps towards me and his hands are on my elbows, up my arms, on my shoulders, on my face, lifting it up to his. The heat of his touch leaves prints on my skin and his poison seeps into my bloodstream, flowing straight to my brain. It takes all the strength I have left not to succumb to it and melt into him. I want to let him make me feel better. I want him to make me forget, to make me believe him.

"Please, Ally," he whispers feebly against my lips. "Please, give me another chance."

His eyes mould into mine for a just a second before he kisses me gently, pleadingly, on my lips. My mouth betrays me, moving in perfect sync with his out of its own accord.

I vaguely wonder if he can hear it, the struggle inside me. I can tell from the way his fingers are cradling my head, the way his thumbs are caressing my cheeks and the way he seems to be inhaling me with every breath he takes, that he means every word he just said. And while I want nothing more than to believe him, I know that none of this, no matter how real it may feel, makes it true.

Because how long will it last? How long will it take for him to remember that he's not a one-woman man? How long before we have another argument and he goes out to the bar and comes back home with another blond on his arm? Before he decides he's had enough of me and sends me away, leaving me with nothing?

His lips tremble against my skin as they cover my face in hot, gentle kisses. I shudder at his touch as the dread in my stomach swells. My brain is relentlessly screaming for me to get it over with.

This is nobody's fault but mine. He tried to stop this from happening because he knew exactly how he felt about me and probably how I felt about him. He knew that once we crossed that line there was no going back. But I had to push him. Because I didn't realise how deep in the water we were and now it feels like I'm trying to stay afloat with a cannonball tied to my ankles.

"I'm sorry," I whisper into his ear as another tear escapes my eyes. "I need more time."

I reluctantly pull his hands away from my face and run to my room before I cave.

Every cell in my body is fighting to go back to him but I resist because I know this is the right thing, the only thing, to do. I close the door on him but the pulling force between us doesn't break. I fetch the key he gave me and use it for the very first time. The lock turns with a deafening click and I release a very slow, very laden breath.