While You Were Away ✈ (On Edition)

03. Morning Issues

"Save it." I huff, distraught by the need of caffeine, the clock ticking nearby 8 am --the prior nighttime didn't relish my rest but other needs-- and the recent magic trick the witch has pulled off to lure Aaron back to her claws.  With fingers tightly enclosed around the handle, I open the fridge, pursuing bacon, eggs and an excuse to pin my attention towards anything but Aaron Johnson.  As I crack the eggshell, as easily as Mrs Big Nose has cleaved my morning, I decide they'll no longer be Benedict but scrambled. Aaron won't be around for breakfast, there's no reason to pamper him with his favourite recipe.

"I'm sorry, Harper," he sighs. His chin rests on my shoulder blade, chest against my back. I roll my eyes. Getting touchy won't make it better, Johnson. "You know I want nothing more than stay, but she..."

"I said save it."

It's my choice not to turn around and watch him grimace, crumbled by my behaviour, but the traitorous organ pumping blood through my veins works in agony, betraying my body, my decisions and the strong masquerade I intend to wear. Tautness swirls in the air and it grows heavier, although Autumn's breeze has turned chilly outside the apartment walls, inside the flat [bought by Aaron] it feels thick, nauseating. Nope, before you start freaking out, I'm not pregnant, and I'm not suffering morning sickness.

What a joke. I'd thought that on the rear of yesterday's events he wouldn't go home the moment she called; instead, he'd turn off his phone and break free from monotony. Faith tricked me into believing he'd put me first today; turning a blind eye to the Mistress' Rights list. My hopes got up after Aaron fled from London to spend a night with me, they went higher when in spite of our fight he returned and loved me. It made me forget stay isn't written under the list.

"Please be understanding," Aaron has the guts to beg. At least minutes ago he had the decency to look sorry; in fact, he looked absolutely troubled by the situation. Now, he's bordering the shameless line. "She needs help with the girls."

"Am I not being understanding?" I scoff, defiant eyes piercing through his. The scent of burnt bacon wafting into my nostrils. I've no time for this. "Haven't I stand on my lane aware that she's who calls the shots?"

Tossing a glare over my shoulder, I angle the stove and turn it off, wincing at the brown yolk stuck to the pan. Aaron balks behind me, unfamiliar with my actions. The usual lump in my throat has gone to Hawaii and isn't here to stop me from talking. In our days together, I haven't said such things, not since yesterday, and I'm not planning to chicken out.

I'm pissed, to such level I could grab a pillow and bury my face in it to muffle my frustrated screams. My sight blurs and falls out of focus as a wave of tears threatens me. The last thing I want is to show Aaron how much power he wields over me, so I hold them back, blinking fast in order to dry them out.  I know I'm treading on thin ice by looking back at him but is necessary if I seek to drop a sign that I'm being serious, that the shadows of tears weren't due to disappointment but to anger. Do I have a right, though? The current happenings were warned by him since our first kiss, out in Castlefield, where the two of us spent our second date, and he'd confessed his marriage over dinner at The Wharf.  It hadn't been exactly how I wanted it to go, but when he asked me to be his, he made it all worth it.

That night I accepted he'd be MIA for weeks, with limited opportunities to sneak a phone call whereas the texts would be daily, constant. I could ask him to come (not like I've tried to) and he wouldn't show up. Yet, when she'd call, he'd rush back home without hesitation. See why it's hard to grasp a reason to stick to him? Almost on cue,  As Long As You Love Me by the Biebs tunes in my head and I catch an answer. We could be starving, we could be homeless, we could be broke and stupid I would endure it, with our hands intertwined, together.