It's never too late to make it right
-I'm Sorry by Buckcherry
Chapter 4 - Too Late?
You stand up from your armchair and cross your arms over your chest. It's a defensive posture, and you know it, and you know you should be avoiding it, but he's the one hiding behind the couch and of the two of you, you can't imagine him being the one who really needs that protection.
You watch her stand up and cross her arms and think how she looks like she's bracing herself for something. It's a very Cameron pose, she uses it all the time to express her unwillingness to yield, but her eyes are not hard and defiant like they should be when she stands like that.
You steady yourself for what he's about to say. He's supremely uncomfortable.
She's bracing herself for an argument. For a rejection. For pain.
Fuck.
"You were right. I'm afraid."
I lied. I'm afraid.
"Of what?"
"You."
You scoff. "Please, if anyone should be afraid of anyone else here, it's me of you."
That's rich. Me, the one you routinely refer to as the weak one, and I scare you.
You huff impatiently and wave your cane. "Am I ever going to get to talk here? We could have done this whole thing in five minutes if you'd just shut up."
Would you just for crying out loud listen to me for once?! Talk about assuming what the other person is saying.
You have the decency to blush.
"I'm not … a relationship guy. Ask Wilson, I'm sure he keeps a list." You scratch your thumbnail gently across your forehead. "I take, all the time, and I hardly ever give back. Well, unless you count bullshit, which I dole out with unending generosity. But you … you take it. The bullshit, I mean. You've been taking it right along. Sometimes I think you take it even better than Wilson. You whine about it less than he does. At least to me. How much can you take? When do you stop giving?"
I'm not going to be easy. I mean that in every possible sense. I am going to coldly and methodically mete out every possible insult and construct a hundred barriers, while I push every boundary you set until I find the point at which you will declare me unworthy of you. Then I'll do the smallest thing necessary to win you back, and spend the rest of our time together testing the line you've drawn. I will make you doubt yourself and me and us to within an inch of your sanity. Every day will be exhausting and nearly fruitless.
You realize that you're pacing again, back and forth behind the couch. You can't seem to stop your legs from moving, which is fine since neither can you stop your mouth from babbling like a love struck teen-aged imbecile with a hormone imbalance.
You realize that while he's pacing and babbling, he's talking about a relationship with you as if it's a foregone conclusion. Is that what scares him? That he can't stop himself from feeling something he doesn't want to feel?
You hate that love scares him.
You hate what love does to you.
"Anyway, the point is, you're like …Moby Dick to my Ahab."
Anyway, the point is, you're like…Moby Dick to my Ahab.
"You want to hunt me down and kill me," you deadpan. You can feel your confidence building.
I'm your eventual downfall. Something about her tone says she's toying with you.
"No. Bad metaphor. You're … the cigarette they give a guy facing the firing squad."
Quit being a smart ass. You're …the cigarette they give a guy facing the firing squad.
"So," you volley back smugly, "I'm your last hurrah before you face an inevitable demise."
Even better. She's definitely teasing you. I'm just a final fling before you're too old to be flung anymore.
"Are you mocking me?" You ask her in a low and dangerous voice. She just smiles.
Dish it out while you can, he threatens. It's empty though. You just smile.
That smile, that gorgeous, breathtaking, soul lifting, happiness promising smile changes the entire atmosphere of the room.
You watch him watching you, and even though the eye contact is still very intense, it's suddenly not so scary. Maybe he just seems less scared.
"Am I really that scary?"
What are you so afraid of?
"Cuddy's scarier in her sleep."
You, you, always you.
You unfold your arms from your chest and place your hands on your hips.He still hasn't really said anything.
You watch her change her stance. Less defensive, more annoyed. Annoyed is good. Annoyed you know.
"You're not scary. But I'm scaredof you. I'm scared of you being the last one. My last chance. And once I screw this up…"
Not you. Failure. Being alone. I'm scared of you being the last chance I'm going to get. Or that it's too late. And when I screw it up…
"If."
You won't.
You drop your arms and circle your way around the couch toward him, stopping just a few inches from him. Not close enough to feel his breath but close enough to smell that scent. Him.
You keep talking even as she's walking toward you, breaking barriers again. She stops half a foot from you. Not close enough to smell her perfume, but near enough to watch her pupils dilate.
"When I screw this up … I'm done. I barely know if I can do this again now. I definitely know I won't be able to …There won't be a next time."
I didn't want to do this again. Ever. Now you're here. You got in. Next time the walls will have to be even higher.
You step in and put your hand on his hand while it clutches his cane. His voice falls off and his eyes are drawn to that simple, but powerful, link between you.
Your thoughts trail off as she comes nearer to you and places her hand on yours. That simple contact, less than a square foot of shared space and suddenly this seems very easy.
"House," you whisper.
I love you.
