Cinnamon & Nutmeg Volume 2: Where I Want To Be

10: Brian

I had to find you

Tell you I need you

Tell you I set you apart

Tell me your secrets

And ask me your questions

Oh, let's go back to the start

~ Coldplay, "The Scientist"

I stare at the wall and try not to think about how good it felt sharing a shower with Dom. The feel of his calloused hand, stroking. I can't think about it. Instead, I wonder how badly injured he was when I handed him the keys and walked away.

Who did he go to for help? The man drove away with a dislocated shoulder and a mild concussion. Bruised ribs too, most likely. Why didn't I get back in the car and go with him?

The voice in the back of my head is more than willing to provide the answers: because you did more harm than good already,  because he didn't want you with him. Because he would have left you in the dust if your roles had been switched. He wouldn't have come back for you, not when he heard the sirens in the distance.

I'll die before I go back. That's what he said; I believed him. I didn't deserve to be happy; I would have been happy with him, no matter where I was or what happened.

I don't deserve that after what I did to him.

The mattress shifts beneath Dom's weight each time he moves. Despite how big it is. I do my best to stay still, waiting for my friend to drift off to sleep. It won't be as easy for me to do the same. Know it, accept it. I could always crash on the couch, but I still wouldn't get any sleep. Because Dom is in my house, under my roof, in my bed, holy shit, five years of nothing, not a word, not a postcard, not a whisper.

I knew he'd come back after what happened – that didn't lessen the shock of reality. The width of the man's shoulders all but filling the frame of the window Park dangled from. The profile of the man's features when he glanced over his shoulder – damn, that stole the breath from my lungs. If I hadn't known better, I would've accused one of my fellow agents of standing behind me and hitting me with a tazer. That one moment took me back to the first race, when I'd punched the NOS and looked over at Dom, just feet away as though our cars were parked next to each other somewhere.

Adrenaline, electricity, chemistry.

All there, like nothing else had ever happened, ever existed, ever come between us.

And Dom wanted to go on like nothing ever had. That's how it seems, at least.

I don't know how to do that. Guilt and regret and remorse ride my ass like drafting rivals in a 500-mile NASCAR race. Letting me do all the work, waiting for the perfect moment to slingshot out and blow my fucking doors off.

Not surprising, though. I don't know how to do much of anything when it comes to relationships. Except walk away when things get thick. Real easy to walk away from a bedridden man in a coma. Real easy to walk away from a mother who seems inclined to ignore your existence. Real easy, whenever things get difficult.

I did it to Dom once. I don't want to do it again. I won't, damn it. I stare at the wall and swear I won't walk away from the man. If Dom wants me gone, this time he will have to walk away. Period. And I don't give a shit what anyone thinks or says about it.