Lorna's Interlude – Never Wear White
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Author's Note – Ah! Finally I've updated! Once again, I'm so sorry with the total lack of schedule here. I'll try to get the next one up within the month, but no promises.
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"I can turn a Sentinel into a highly compressed tin can without lifting a finger, but I still can't program a VCR. It must be a girl thing." Lorna
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Neither of us is asleep and we know it.
Come to think of it, we rarely are. It's nothing dirty, just that we don't sleep much. We pretend to, lying in each other's arms, but that's as much a lie as we are.
"...Bobby?" I mumble, and he shifts beneath me.
"Hmm? Yeah, I'm awake."
"Thought so." I scoot myself off his chest to sit at the end of the couch. He tucks his legs in to make room. I don't know the right way to start this conversation, so I bite my lip and pause. He waits patiently, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
How do I explain this?
I'm not in love with him, but I do care about him. That's why this is going to be hard. I know this is going to hurt him, and hurting him will hurt me, and suddenly I'm so selfish to be thinking how I'll feel instead of him. I've trapped myself into hurting him. There's no backing out.
If only life and love was easy, I'd love him back. I want to love him back. But I know what love is, and this isn't it. I'd give almost anything to lie in his arms without the guilt that I'm just benefiting from him without giving anything in return. I'm some kind of parasite absorbing his affection and faking love. We both know it isn't real.
With Alex I was passionate. With Bobby I am lost.
"Do we...do we need to talk?" He asks tentatively, and he almost cringes when I nod.
"I've been thinking..." I try to just say the words, but my tongue is caught behind my teeth. He's wearing a black shirt and I'm wearing a white nightgown. I think bitterly about the last time a man wore black when I was wearing white, and my resolve falters again.
God damn it. God damn it all. Why can't we just be perfect like Jean and Scott?
And I finally say it. "I don't love you. I'm leaving."
His voice unnaturally cool and calculated, and right now, I'd prefer it if he just broke down and cried. "Fine. Get your things. Get out of my room."
He stares at me angrily; there isn't a trace of sadness in his face. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but he interrupts me. "You heard me the first time, right? Get your stuff and use the empty room down the hall."
I nod and my eyes fill with tears, but I'll be damned if I let them fall. He keeps staring me down as I grab what stuff I can carry easily. He wants me to feel guilty, and dammit, I feel like shit. He would never hurt me up front, not like Alex might, but since I first met him he's learned how to do it indirectly.
"You were just using me, weren't you?" I nearly jump at his voice. There isn't a trace of the jokester, fun-loving Bobby I know in his voice, and when I turn back to see him he's iced up. "All this time, and I thought you could love me."
I shake my head. "It's not that, Bobby. I just can't stand doing this to you."
"What, using me?" He spits out, and I see frost creeping across the couch covers. He's making himself cold, inaccessible, untouchable. The room temperatures dropping and I shiver, though I'm not sure if it's from the cold or the sudden change in him.
I can't change the words enough to make them sound right, so I stay quiet. The thought of freedom is terrifying yet tempting, and all I have to do is go through the motions and walk out that door. I can't turn back to our little fantasy world anyway.
He'd have given me everything and I refused it, because it's unfair to both of us. He loved me and I was empty. I can't let him waste himself like that. He'll get over me if I break away now.
"Just go." He says, and for a second I think that his eyes aren't icy anymore, that they're brown again and starting to rim with red. They're not. They're frigid blue and glassy.
He's doing me a favor, turning to ice. That way I don't have to witness what I'm doing, what I've done, what we've done.
I take my stuff with me and walk out the door, starting to close it quietly behind me. I wait a few seconds, then take a last look. The couch is still draped in a light layer of white snow and ice, but it's melting and he's tan skin and brown hair again, and he puts his head in his hands.
Hard to believe that this was the best thing I could do for him now. I can't lie to him anymore. The air outside the room tastes bitter and I already hate it.
I'm never going to wear white again.