I wake early the next morning with a clearer head. And thanks to a soothing session with my trusty vibrator, all thoughts of Seth, almost moments, and heart-thumping aches have ceased. With my body no longer coiled with tension, I step into the living room, ready to tackle whatever today brings.
That's Seth, and not the version I've spent the last two weeks living with. This one is all new. And a mess.
His right hand rests across the back of the couch sporting gashes along each of his knuckles, his eyes are bloodshot and rimmed with crimson, and one of his shoes is untied-as if he gave removing them a shot before abandoning the effort. Said shoe is pressed against the side of my pristine coffee table, where bits of dirt are either scuffed into the wood or scattered across the surface.
I'm deciding whether I'm more furious or worried when Seth says, "The walls are thin. The next time you choose to set that thing of yours to turbo, you might want to play some background music."
His words come out slightly slurred and from the stale stench of alcohol I'm picking up, it's easy to deduce he's drunk. My empty bottle of whipped cream vodka resting at the base of the couch supports that fact.
Lovely.
I could be embarrassed Seth's just listened in on me pleasuring myself but figure it's not worth the effort. He may not even remember it when he sobers up later.
I take a seat beside him on the couch. "Noted."
He twists his beautifully ruined face, revealing the cut on the right side of his upper lip. It's warped into a smirk. "Did you have fun?"
Not particularly. I'd been pestered with fantasies of Seth's soft lips along my collarbone and fingers skimming the insides of my thigh as the vibrations sent me to the moon and back. But he doesn't need to know that, and besides, my result had still been achieved.
"It was beneficial."
He nods, his eyes lingering closed a second too long. "Good."
When his head curls back to the television screen so he can watch a mindless commercial, I ask, "How about you? You get into any fun last night?"
"Loads of it."
I've lost his attention. Either that or he's shutting me out. Neither is going to stand with me.
I edge closer, lifting my fingers to his battered hand. The cuts aren't deep, but purple bruises are already beginning to form. Carefully avoiding the tender areas, I skim my fingertips along the calloused skin of his palm. "Seth, c'mon. What happened?"
He pulls his hand from my grip and places it into his lap, not removing his focus from the television. "Nothing you need to worry about."
"But that's the thing. I do."
"You shouldn't."
I should start a list of the things I shouldn't do or feel for Seth because it's getting difficult to keep them all straight. I shouldn't care about him. I shouldn't ask him too many personal questions. I shouldn't want him and I shouldn't worry about him. But I do. And since I can't exactly press certain items on my list, I optimize on the opportunity to smash through this particular item like a wrecking ball.
"Fuck that," I clip, demanding the attention he finally gives me. "Whether you want me to or not, I worry about you. Especially when you come home with your hand smashed to bits and your face swollen." I snatch his bloody hand from his lap and lift it into the air. "Can you even move your fingers? Have you even cleaned your cuts?"
He doesn't dignify me with a response, but he doesn't need to. I already know the answers.
"I worry about you because someone needs to." The heat of his hand seeps into my skin, igniting my nerves, but I don't drop it. Not even when I stand. "Now stop being a baby and let me clean you up."
Seth doesn't speak as he rises to his feet and follows me into the bathroom. And as he leans against the granite countertop surrounding the sink, I feel victorious. He may fight me at every turn, but this time I've stood up for myself.
I grab the gauze and cleaning alcohol from the cabinet above the toilet and start on his hand first. We don't speak; I just work. Being this close to him after last night isn't easy. My body senses the familiar crave it now associates with Seth, but with the stench of stale booze permeating the air, it's easier to not get wrapped up in my attraction.
"Do you want to tell me what happened now?" I ask as I finish cleaning the last slash along his pinky knuckle.
"There's nothing to tell."
I stop my motions and level him with a glare. In this small a space, I'm only a foot from his face and impossible to ignore.
He recognizes that and sighs. "Some asshole pissed me off at the bar so I took a swing. He followed it up with three of his apes. I didn't stand a chance, but I sure as hell gave them a run for their money."
He's wearing a satisfied smirk when I lift the gauze to his mouth and smother it. "You're pleased with yourself." It's not a question; it's an observation. He answers anyway.
"Moderately."
He doesn't once wince from the alcohol's burn cleansing the wound on his lip. It's not surprising. Anyone who willingly enters a fist fight already knows how to handle pain.
However, that notion alone is painful for me.
I'd already prepared myself for the sting of him choosing to sleep with a random bimbo last night over me, but I hadn't equipped myself for this. This is a different pain. It's his. And because I care about him, I share it and am helpless in protecting him against it.
"I was sure you'd gone home with someone, but this-" I shake my head, "-this is worse."
Frustrated, I close my eyes, wishing I understood the workings of Seth's mind. He may not have outright admitted it, but he'd instigated that fight, and for what? It's hard to say since he's given me practically nothing to go on. All the assumptions I've made have been my own. I hardly know this man. I thought I did. Now I'm not sure.
I wish I did. It would make everything so much easier.
Reopening my eyes, Seth softens his voice and looks at me for the first time today. Truly, genuinely looks at me.
"Ellie, about last night-"
"We don't need to talk about it." I know he doesn't want to and I'm done pushing.
He cocks his head to the side. "What happened to 'people sometimes have meaningful conversations'?"
"It's in the kitchen getting me a cup of coffee."
"Drag its ass back in here 'cause I need you to understand something." His undamaged hand grabs my wrist, pulling me closer. I settle between his spread legs and when I glance up, his eyes are all I see. "You and me, what we have, it's good. And I don't have a lot of good in my life."
I'm beginning to understand that. "You have to see the good in order to appreciate it."
"I do. I see the good in you. What you've done for me by opening your door and trusting me means everything. No one's ever done something like that for me. You're the first real friend I've had in my waste of a life and I don't want to fuck that up."
He lifts his hand to capture a few strands of hair behind my ear before it rests against my cheek. His eyes are heartbreaking, but determined. "And trust me, if we go any further, I will. It's a nasty habit of mine."
Although his declaration puts a complete halt to any romantic possibility, I finally understand his mindset. It's disappointing but reasonable. He's never had someone care for him before, and right now that's what he needs-support and friendship, not romance. So I push past the letdown and focus on what I did gain-his honesty.
It's becoming clearer this man is a mess, and not just right now with his bloodshot eyes and bruised skin but every day. Even the ones we spend laughing our way through dinner, sprawling out on the couch afterward. But he's my mess now and I'm not letting go. I just wish I knew what I was doing.
I don't break our locked gazes as I lift my hand to cup his. "I don't want to mess it up either."
"Then let's try really fucking hard not to." A smile plays at his lips, but his voice displays his vulnerability, as if I'm the rope and he's seconds away from being pulled under by the undertow that is the rest of his life.
I won't let him sink.
"Okay."
"Okay," he repeats.
We've settled on an agreement and as I step back and finish cleaning the cut on his lip, I decide I may not have the decadence of ever feeling Seth between my legs but I have the luxury of calling him my friend. And for him, that's more important than anything.
"As your friend, I think you need some sleep. And a shower. You smell like cat piss." With the blood removed from his face, I toss the stained fabric into the wastebasket. "But probably sleep first."
"I think you're right." He nods before walking out to the living room and collapsing onto the couch. His head is on my pillow again. Of course.
"What is it with you and the couch?"
"It's familiar." Since his head is smashed into the material, it comes out muffled.
"Care to offer up something less vague?" Making my way over to the kitchen, I reach into the cabinet for a can of pledge.
"Maybe another time."
Typical. Rolling my eyes, I swipe a rag. "I won't hold my breath."
He doesn't respond this time and as I lean down to clean the scuff marks Seth left behind on the coffee table, I'm sure he's already passed out. But he surprises me by saying, "Oh, and, Ellie?"
"Yeah?"
"I didn't go home with anyone because you're not that easily replaced. You should give yourself more credit."
I glance at the couch to find his eyes still closed. If the words weren't repeating in my head in perfect clarity, I'd assume I'd imagined them. But I hadn't. They'd been Seth's drunken truth and I can't do anything with it now.
Still, as I wipe the surface clean, I'm incapable of resisting my smile.