Hold Me by W. Winters
Ella
The weeks pass in a blur. Every day checking off a list. Greeting Zander on my knees seems to be a favorite of his as time goes by. It’s the first item on the slip of paper he gives me in the morning.
I love those moments.
The days, though … they come with ups and downs. Small moments where I feel so much lighter and then darker times where I close my eyes and remind myself: Grief is a ball in a box and it’s okay.
The thoughts barely stay for long, because Zander’s there or Damon. Even Kamden has been coming more frequently, making arrangements for me to attend different social events if I want to, all of them already approved by Zander and Damon.
They say I’m getting closer to a new normal, but almost every night, I glance down the hall no one talks about. When we lie together in bed, sometimes I forget and I think I’m in bed with James down the hall, being held and kissed and loved by him. Then I wake up, and it processes slowly.
I haven’t told anyone. Not Damon, not Zander. Because if I said what I’m thinking, maybe they’d think I’m crazy. I think James wants me to go down the hall. I think he wants me to go back into our bedroom. Even if it’s just to say goodbye.
Maybe he wants me to know that he’s okay with everything that’s happened. Maybe he’s trying to tell me he still loves me, even if I’m in bed with another man. Maybe he wants me to know he misses me. Maybe it’s all in my head.
The low rumble of an approaching thunderstorm drowns out the rustling of the trash bag at my side. It’s easier to handle than the damn cardboard box I found in the garage, so I settled for it. The gray skies and increasing winds of the incoming downpour feel right for the occasion.
We loved the storms. One step at a time, one breath out and one in, I bypass the thin rope blocking off the west wing and flick on the light. Ignoring everything in front of me, I remember laying in James’s arms on the porch of his uncle’s house, under the tin roof, listening to the rain.
I can still hear him laugh as the bedroom door creaks open, the memories and the present moment colliding.
“One day we’ll have a tin roof porch,” he declared once. He said it like a joke until I told him I’d love that. I love the storms.
The next exhale is more difficult, because it hurts even though it shouldn’t. Simply existing shouldn’t cause pain like it does when you’re missing someone.
“You lied,” I speak into the quiet room. It’s colder in here. Unlike the hall, nothing in this room is covered. Roughly two years ago, I closed the door and told everyone not to enter it. And that’s how it’s remained. The heat clicks on as I drag my finger across the dresser. It’s dusty and musty. I suppose that’s what happens when a room is closed off for as long as this one has been.
With the trash bag still in my hand, I sit on the edge of the bed. It doesn’t protest in the least. A thought crosses my mind that I didn’t expect.
I wonder if Zander did this. If he cleaned out drawers he didn’t want to ever open. I wonder if he had someone else clean up the traces of Quincy, the ones we’re not supposed to leave around because it prevents us from “moving on.”
I’d ask him, but just like this bedroom door was a moment ago, I think that conversation is a place Zander doesn’t want to go. That it’s something that’s quite firmly locked up. Placing the bag on the bed, I focus on the other item that was balled up with it, the ancient phone that only texts.
I’m going to put some things aside.
It’s odd to feel relief and accomplishment, sitting in a room, proud not to be losing it.
What?Kamden texts back. What things? Do you need help?
His messages come quickly, one after the other.
Let’s just store them until I’m ready— My thumbs hesitate and I can’t type the rest of the sentence so I hit send. The idea of typing, to get rid of them, disrupts the small moment of ease, the hope that I am strong enough for this.
I hope he doesn’t ask, “Ready for what?”
Thankfully, he doesn’t.
Okay. We can store anything you want for however long or indefinitely. Can I come over?
Staring down at his question, I don’t know how to answer him. I think I want to be alone for this, but I don’t know that I can be.
I have a meeting but I’ll be done soon if you can wait.
No.The word is typed and sent before I can think twice about it. My breathing picks up as I push myself off the bed, taking in the abandoned room.
His texts don’t stop and with each one, I know he doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t think I can do this. Insecurity weaves its way through me. What about the girls? We’ll make it a cozy night in—we can watch Hocus Pocus and Kelly can read our tarot cards?
In an effort to reassure him, I tell him, Damon knows.I’m surprised by his response.
Where’s Zander?
I lie and tell him, Zander will be here soon.
But where is he, did he tell you to do this?
No, it’s just a part of me getting back to normal.It’s such a lie to minimize it as a line on a checklist. But there’s truth in it too. As my phone continues to vibrate with message after message, I pick up a silver frame from my old dresser. Sweeping off a thick layer of dust that clouds the photograph with my thumb, I peer down at a memory frozen in black and white. I used to call it “our photograph” because it’s the one nearly every gossip column and media outlet used when it came out that we were seeing each other.
In the photo, I’m lying against his chest; I can still feel the stubble lining his chin that rested in the crook of my neck. His teeth are perfect and I remember joking with him that it could be an ad for a dentistry practice. We look happy. “We were so happy,” I whisper to no one. Although my eyes gloss over, I hold it back and it’s easier to do than I anticipated.
Kam continues texting and I let out a small laugh that surprises me. I’m not sure where it’s come from, but I’ll take the lightheartedness over the heaviness that’s come over me.
I’m okay, Kam. I promise I’m okay.
If I text you every five minutes, will you be mad?
No … I think I’d be okay with that.
Good. I’m here for you.
Through the parted curtains, I’m given a view of the storm raging on, the rain rampaging against the panes and a crack of lightning in the distance.
The frame makes a small clunk as I set it down and let out a heavy breath to steady myself. His clothes. I remind myself that it’s not the furniture, it’s not the visual reminders like that photograph, or anything like that that should be stored or donated. It’s his clothes.
That’s the only thing.
Naturally, I turn my back on his dresser and move to my nightstand. The lavender lotion is still there; picking it up, I find it’s nearly full. A vision appears in front of me: the last time I remember using it. In silk pajamas with boy shorts and a matching tank top. I climbed into bed, under these sheets, and he was there, waiting for me.
I’m less careful dropping the lotion and then think it should be something that I toss in this bag, but I don’t. Instead I spot the room spray from our honeymoon. I bought so many bottles of it but barely ever used it. Without touching it, the scent hits me as if bathed in it. The tropical scent of the Riviera Maya.
A sad smile crosses my face when I remember he told me I’d never use it. It was expensive and James couldn’t have cared less. He was right, but he told me to get it, because it would make me happy.
It’s not fair how many little things that are meaningless can bring on so much emotion.
Tears well again, but I hold them back, forcing myself to open just one drawer and get it over with. Just one drawer, clothes that should be donated. Clothes that I don’t need to hold on to anymore.
The lightning strikes closer, and there’s a louder rumble this time. The rain beats down as the drawer scrapes open. It’s a long drawer and I get down on my knees to go through the few pieces that lay in the bottom.
There aren’t many pieces at all. This was our vacation home. We were barely here, so it shouldn’t be surprising but somehow it is.
The first three garments are easy. I toss the shorts and jeans into the bag and I’m able to go through the entire drawer. There’s nothing to keep. Nothing that should stay here.
Sitting on my heels, I lean back and look at the pathetically empty bag and then open the next drawer and the next.
It seems easier and easier as the rain pours down and the lightning lessens, until I get to one piece. One rugby shirt that I hated. God, it looked awful on him. The fit was all wrong, the fabric too thick. I never hated a shirt more.
The storm carries on as I hold up the orange shirt, still not seeing the appeal. I remember how he laughed about how much I hated it. I’m surprised to even see it here. Just as I’m thinking he never wore it, or at least I don’t remember him ever wearing it, I see the tags.
It’s brand new. He had it for years and never wore it.
“You’re not wearing that. It’s awful.”
“You’re a little small to be so bossy,” he joked, smiling down at me.
“Seriously, I’ll dye my hair if you put that thing on.”
The moment takes over,his hands on me, how he backed me up against the wall.
I don’t realize I’m crying, hot wet lines running down my face, until my phone goes off with a text.
Laying the shirt on my lap but not letting it go, I answer the phone with my other hand and see I’ve missed three texts from Kamden.
You okay?
Hey babe I just need you to message me, okay?
Please, Ella. I’m a PITA but I love you and anything will do.
As I’m reading them, another comes through. Don’t be mad, I messaged Damon.
Shifting so my ass is on the floor, I let the shirt go and respond. I’m here. Just had a moment. It’s not so ladylike as I wipe under my nose and consider using the damn shirt as a tissue. A small laugh leaves me at the thought, but then without warning, I sob. Crying into the shirt with fresh hot tears.
“Oh my fucking God what is wrong with me,” I murmur in between wiping at my face with the shirt. Feel it and let it go.
Even as I tell myself to let go of the emotions, I don’t want to let go of the shirt. I don’t know that I’m ready. I don’t think I’m ready.
Focusing on my breathing, I quickly text, Kam I don’t think I’m ready to throw anything away.
That’s okay, that’s totally fine.
My fingers fly across the keys.I mean the houses too. I don’t want anyone to touch them.
Even as I send them, I know it’s unreasonable. I know it is. I just want to stay still for a moment. I’m just not ready for it to change.
I text him again adding, Please, but I can’t explain why.
I spend too long staring down at the rumpled trash bag and wrinkled-up shirt, with my hands trembling. It’s not until Kam tells me no one will touch anything and that he’ll make sure of it that I’m able to consider pulling myself together.
Shame creeps up my spine at how easy it was for me to fall apart.
I couldn’t clear out a dresser of clothes.
“Ella.” Zander’s voice carries through from the cracked bedroom door. It creaks open; he doesn’t wait for me to answer.
I’m sure I’m a sight to behold. There’s no doubt my mascara has run, my cheeks are tearstained and I’m sure my nose is red. Taking in a steadying breath, I slowly rise to my feet, not bothering to hide anything at all.
“Ella,” he repeats, saying my name with a gentleness, a comfort that’s unexpected. I suck in a deep breath, meant to make it all right, but instead my expression crumples and my throat goes tight. He’s quick to wrap his arms around me, bringing me back down to the ground, nestled in his lap as I cling to his shirt. I fist his cotton T-shirt, burying my head in his chest.
One deep breath after the other as he shushes me, rubbing soothing circles on my back and rocking me slightly. Back and forth as the waves of chaotic grieving dim.
With my eyes closed, I breathe Zander in, his unique scent. It’s masculine but clean. Like fresh open water.
“I thought I was doing good,” I whisper, opening my eyes to see the light shining off the silver frame. My gaze drops until Zander grips my chin between his thumb and forefinger, bringing my eyes up to his.
The world pauses. All my thoughts, all the sorrow just as much as the battering of the rain when he traps me with his emerald and amber eyes. He doesn’t see through me, he sees all of me. Every last piece and I can’t breathe.
“You did very well and I’m proud of you.” He’s the one to close his eyes and when his lips meet mine, I close mine too. His kiss is bruising, taking without remorse and consuming me in a way I’d forgotten I could feel.
The only way I can think to describe it is safe, cherished, wanted … I don’t know that any one word is enough. It feels like it’ll be okay. Maybe even that nothing else matters. As long as I just stay right here.
He lowers his head again and my eyes close, eager for him to do that again. To make it all go away. To make me his and nothing but that.
My lips mold to his until he nips my bottom lip. A gasp leaves me at the sudden hint of pain.
“Good girl,” he whispers against my lips and then kisses my forehead.
I hadn’t realized how tired I was until I rest my cheek on his chest.
“Did I interrupt you?” he questions.
A knot forms in my chest and I readjust to sit up, to feel the cool air against my heated face. “I think I did all I should for today.”
I peek up at Zander to find him considering the bag of clothes. He doesn’t question anything, he only nods and then pushes the drawer shut to lean against the dresser, keeping his arm around his waist to pull me along with him.
With his legs bent on either side of me, both arms wrapped around me and my head resting against his shoulder, he sits with me, in this room that doesn’t belong to either of us.
It belongs to what once was.
My exhale shudders out of me. Unsteady and daring me to let my thoughts wander.
“You came in with a purpose. I will stay until you’ve done what you wanted.” I tilt my head back to peer up at Zander, who takes his time to look back down at me.
“What are you going to do? Follow me from room to room?” I don’t hide the incredulousness from my tone.
His answer is as simple as it is definitive. “If that’s what you need.”
“You have more important things to do than to babysit me.”
“No, Ella, I don’t.”
For the second time in only moments, I feel caught, but safe. Seen and protected. All at once, it’s suffocating and I tear my gaze from his. Staring across the room, I tell him, “I had planned to do one drawer.”
“It looks like you did that.”
I can only nod, my snide thoughts telling me I should have stopped while I was ahead. “I did.”
“Next time I’d like you to tell me.” His strong hand wraps around my thigh. “Poor Damon was standing outside of the door not knowing what to do with himself.”
Surprised, I turn to face Zander, who grins at my shock.
“No he wasn’t.”
He laughs slightly, his broad chest shaking as he does. He nods and tells me, “He was.”
Brushing at my knee, I stare at the thick accent rug, feeling guilty. “I didn’t mean to make him worry.”
“We can’t help but worry,” he tells me. His thumb runs along my cheek, as if he’s brushing away tears that no longer exist. “I want to be here for you. Don’t deprive me of that, my little bird.”
My heart thumps, loud and heavy. Refusing to go unnoticed. Three words nearly slip from my lips, reckless and nothing but raw emotion. The moment I catch them, I swallow them down. I haven’t forgotten Damon’s comment about displacing my feelings.
Zander stands slowly, holding his hand out for me. “Come.” He towers over me.
There’s a question that lingers, that begs to be spoken. Asking if we’ll ever be more. With my small hand in his, I consider asking him, letting it out and seeing where the chips may fall.
“You did well today. I’m proud of you,” he tells me. Like a Dom speaks to his submissive. Matter of fact.
“Thank you,” I whisper and the chill of the room creeps over my shoulders.
The question goes unasked. We’ve both already loved. I’ll never be the woman he met in the bar who made him laugh. And he’ll never be the man who wanted me so desperately that he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
He’s only my Dom. And to him, I am only his submissive.
It’s only when we’re leaving, the bag and rumpled rugby shirt staying where they are, that I notice the rain has stopped.
