❝Sadist,❞ I accused. ❝You only brought me to New York so you could torture me.❞
❝Masochist.❞ Grinning, he pressed his forehead to mine. ❝You stay because you like it.❞ His charming green eyes promised me more. ❝Enjoy it; I want you to. When your m...
The Sunday before our flight, I visited my mother for the last time.
Down the narrow trails of the Noble Cemetery, I followed a path so familiar I could've walked it in my sleep. Leaves fell, crunching underfoot, their fire-orange remains striking against the grey of the headstones. Usually I brought her favorite flowers but today I had white magnolias, just one of the changes to come.
"Hi, Mom." I stooped, brushing aside leaves, revealing long-acquainted words carved in the bronze marker beneath.
Here lies Amelia Jane Preston
Loving Mother
Beloved Sister
Angel in Flight
Sinking to my knees, I laid the flowers by the marker.
"Tyler asked me to go to New York. I said yes. I know it wasn't the plan, but... plans change, right? Ours did." Taking a deep breath, I let it go, quickly. "I can't stay, not anymore. The Village, it's just... too much right now. I need a change. I need Tyler." I shrugged, helpless as the day I lost her. "And I need you."
Kissing my fingertips, I smoothed them over the marker one last time.
"Bye, Mommy. Love you."
Walking away, I was so preoccupied by my tears, I didn't notice the man until I knocked into him.
I walked away, so preoccupied by my tears, I didn't notice the man until I had almost knocked him over. I never saw his face, the bouquet in his hands the only thing I remembered an explosion of pink and purple.
It was only after I climbed inside Tyler's car and collapsed, tearful, in his arms, that I recalled the names of those flowers. Snapdragons and lilies.
My mother's favorite flowers.
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We were supposed to be safe in our hotel suite but Tyler's bad dreams made me feel otherwise. I'm sure it was as horrible watching the nightmares as it was experiencing them. He tossed and turned, sweating, his hair damp on the pillow.
"Tyler? Hey, it's okay. It's just a bad dream..." When I touched his shoulder, he flew awake. Green eyes wide, he sat up like the devil was after him. "You said her name again. Wanna talk about it?
His answer was always the same.
"No." Tyler drew his legs in, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair. He only slept in boxer-briefs; his lean, sculpted body was soaked in sweat.
"Tyler--"
"Don't. Touch me." He left the bed, stomping to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. I hated that, when he treated me like some overnighter, just another fan. Listening, I could hear the water running in the sink, and pictured Tyler rinsing his face as I wiped my tears. Sobbing quietly into my hands, I cursed him to his ancestors. So fucking what if he was famous. It didn't give him the right to treat me like shit.
