The Show Must Go On

Chapter Fifty-Two: Hopeless Romantic

Chapter Fifty-Two Soundtrack: Hopeless Romantic by Michelle Branch

A bird chirps outside my window. Bastard. It's still dark out.

Is my window open? Have I been burgled? I always sleep with it tightly closed, so that my room is as warm and claustrophobic as a womb.

Something moves beside me. Oh my God. I have been burgled.

Oh.

Oh my God.

It's Nas. Obviously.

I finally open my groggy eyes. The room is still dim, even with a soft, grey dawn peeking through the window, but it's enough to see him curled beside me. Still naked. In this light, he's like a smudged charcoal drawing, gentle, blurry, his knees curled into himself to ward off an attack. His arm around me. His heartbeat slow in my ear.

My bedroom is exactly the same - messy nightstand, mushroom lamp, peeling posters I never framed - but everything is different. This is where we sat at my party, and I felt his warmth instead of his touch, and every thought of him was agony because, for the first time, I could imagine him in my bed.

And now that I've touched him, every thought is still agony. It's like the morning after Christmas. Normal life resumes now, except I don't have to wonder.

My chest is tightening already. Not now, I beg whatever god is listening. Don't do this now.

But I can't reason with this feeling. It's here again. I've forgotten how to breathe. My body is collapsing under its own weight.

Stupid, stupid to want this. Stupid to want anything. What haven't I given him? What can't he reject?

Of course he'll leave in the morning. I knew that and I still opened the door. He'll go and I'll stay here, forever, like I always have. Here, in this Miss Havisham house, here, trapped behind the ghost of my grief.

He'll walk out tomorrow.

Or he'll walk out in a week, or a month. He'll cross the road, or find a lump, or get in a car. He'll get in a car and I'll drive him to his death.

He'll leave, of course. He will always leave.

When my chest crumbles inwards like this, it seems like this is the worst I could feel. But I know that's wrong. I know that so much worse is waiting.

'Morning, El,' he murmurs. The words are enough to release my tears.

'Hey, hey, baby. It's okay. It's okay.' He's murmuring nonsense like I'm a startled animal, but it doesn't stop me from crying. 'El, it's alright. You're safe. Just breathe.' He adapts quickly, rubbing my back, folding a sheet around me so that I'm covered entirely.

'Can I talk to you?' he asks.

'Why?' I snuffle.

'So you can think about something else.'

I moan something that sounds like 'Yes'. Currently, so much snot is oozing from me that everything sounds a bit squishy. I thought nothing could rival the ear oiling.

'I got a few emails last night about our development slate. You were doing your victory dance so I didn't interrupt. But it sounds like, if we want to access more internal funding, we can have it.'

'Really?' I cry.

'Really, El. Straight from Barry's boss. Barry wasn't included in the email. I'm not saying you should stage a coup, but if you wanted a step up, this would be the time.'

'What about you?'

He keeps rubbing gentle circles on my back. 'I'll be there if you want, baby.'

'But you don't want it.' My breathing hitches again.