He lay quiet and still, wide awake, watching the first tentative stirrings of dawn light the early morning sky, adding extra brightness to the strip of luminescence that had been his only companion through the sleepless night. His only companion, except for the woman quietly breathing, snuggled into the curve of his body. She'd fallen asleep quickly, a mixture of the sex, the triumph and the alcohol - no guilt there, not Shannon, never. His stomach clenched, painfully, when he thought of the horrible mistake. Oh god, what have I done? He wondered, still unable to blame her for any of it. Not even the lying, the cheating, the stealing, the complete mess he'd made of his life, just for her, could tarnish the perfect image of her he clung to so desperately, the only thing keeping his heart from breaking at her betrayal.
When he'd sat at his desk in his house, after making the travel arrangements to come to her rescue again, opening the drawer to get his passport, his fingers had brushed against the small plastic box holding the colourful round-topped push pins. He'd taken it out and thoughtfully extricated a pink one. Pink was the only sensible selection for all the places he'd gone, just for her. Black was for his mother's business, he reflected, bitterly. He spun the globe on his desk, studded here and there with the colour coded pins, it was a juvenile item, but she'd given it to him for his fourteenth birthday, and he couldn't part with it. She'd never give him any part of herself, he'd thought, closing his eyes and briefly allowing the daydream of having her love, fall around him. He'd stuck it in Sydney, and spun the globe again tracing his finger from LA to France, Spain, Australia; playing connect the pink dots, and then spinning it back again, to home.
Boone put the box back in the desk, beside all the letters he'd written to her, but had been too afraid to send, too afraid to open himself up to her, mindful of the hurt that she could so easily inflict. And god had she, the pain he was feeling at his wordless admission of his love for her, stabbing through him.
When he'd carefully locked
the door to his house, he'd found himself taking one last look
around, a strange feeling that he'd never see the place again, that
this was going to be a one-way trip. She'd be back here with him in
a few days, insisting on staying in his guest room, he'd
reflected
uncomfortably. He'd dismissed the feeling as butterflies over their
impending reunion.
The images from last night washed over him.
He still wanted to kiss her, taste her, breathe her, and for her to
do the same, for her to want to do the same. If she would, he
could even suspend his disbelief and make it seem as if she really
loved him, his stomach clenched again. Even
his own body,
wouldn't let him believe the lie he was trying to convince himself
of.
Oh god, this is too much, he thought, closing his eyes, willing the tears not to come. I can't do this again, I can't take this anymore, it has to stop, he repeated to himself.
He felt her stirring against him. This is the end, he thought, feeling sick again, this is where she leaves.
"Jesus," she swore, pushing away from him in disgust.
He watched as she crossed the room, naked, no concern there, not Shannon, and walked out the door and into the bathroom, leaving him alone and broken.