The music is pumping around me as we finish performing. For the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to stepping off stage. Where dance usually takes my mind off everything else, it’s not working for me today.
And I know why.
It’s the reverberating memories of waking up alone, paired with the feeling of whiskey-colored eyes taking in every movement. The intensity of his stare has my heart pounding in my chest and has nothing to do with the effort I’m putting into the dance steps.
The memory of waking up alone washes over me and it takes tremendous effort, and years of practice, to not let it show on my face. I hate it, but I also understood.
I might not have meant to fall asleep in Everton’s arms last night after he showed up at my place unannounced and told me he was reclaiming me and never letting me go, but it was the best sleep I’ve had in years. Of course it was. Because Everton was holding me.
We never really got to experience sleeping in each other’s arms when we were younger, not like last night—and I don’t even know how long he stayed in my bed. Sure, there were nightswhen we would lose track of time and held each other for far too long after escaping to a corner of Sagebrush’s barn, but there was never a bed involved back then.
Maybe it was better that Everton didn’t wake me when he left my place, whenever it was. I probably would have clung to him and begged him to stay.
Which would have been incredibly selfish considering he has a daughter to think about.
Still, waking up alone was the fucking worst. I would have almost been able to convince myself the night never even happened and was just a dream brought on by seeing the only man I’ve ever loved after so many years. But the way my body ached with satisfaction had a grin lifting my lips which couldn’t be denied.
It wasn’t my imagination. I really did swing the door open last night to find Everton Connors standing on the other side like we hadn’t spent 18 years apart.
He told me I’m his and that he was claiming me again. And I let him. No, that’s not even true—I begged him to do it. I gave myself over to him without any reservation.
I would do it all over again.
Then I woke up alone and my heart stuttered in my chest for a moment. I was waffling between disbelief while reliving every moment and trying to be understanding about not waking up in his arms. Honestly, I was a mess.
And then there was the little voice, the one who loves negativity and bringing me down when I’m at my highest. That fucking voice whispered in my head about Everton not meaning his words and only chasing a past which has no hope for a future.That he was just after the nostalgia of it all because we were thrown together without warning.
That voice is the fucking worst.
When I finally pulled myself together and forced myself out of bed, I found a note on my kitchen counter. A note from Everton. It felt surreal, honestly.
Tiny Dancer,
Sliding out from underneath you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. You were sleeping so peacefully and having you in my arms is fucking everything. But I needed to get back to Rian.
I’ll see you soon.
~E
That was it. Sweet and confusing. Talk about a rollercoaster because my heart soared when I saw that he left a note at all and then it sank when I read it. I’m not sure what I was expecting, honestly. Something more? The declaration I desperately needed?
But I also knew I wasn’t being entirely fair. We don’t have the same lives we used to have. We have responsibilities; him more than me. There is now a lot more to life than classes, chores, and the carelessness of youth.
All I had was an empty bed and a note on my kitchen counter.
I’ve been out of sorts all day because of it. Dancing, which is normally my solace and where I can let go of all my questions about life and all the uncertainties we can’t help but experience just by virtue of breathing, wasn’t as helpful as it normally is.
It’s possible I couldn’t find my normal serenity because I could feel whiskey-colored eyes watching me. At least I didn’t trip over my own damn feet because of the intensity of his gaze. He didn’t miss a single turn and, fuck, I’ve been so turned on.
Finishing for the night is almost a relief which is something I’ve never felt about performing before. It’s not my fault. It’s all because of him.
As much as I want to race to the back and grab my bag so I can slip into the night and head home, I force myself not to rush. The last thing I need to do is call attention to myself.
I take a long drink of water before quickly changing without looking around. It kind of feels like a hell hound is nipping at my feet. He just happens to wear leather and ride in on chrome pipes.
Interacting with the other dancers barely registers, but I know I smile at the right time and say the right things. No one calls me out on the forced brightness.
The feeling of the night closing in on me only grows when I step out into the hallway to head home. My shoulders are practically at my ears.