Part VII
"So, does your shirt actually have buttons or do you just not like to do them up, Desmond?" I tease, motioning at his always hanging-open blue shirt. Not that I mind. He could run around shirtless and I still wouldn't mind. Hell, I'd welcome it.
He grins, holding out a mango for me. "For a new mother, you get away quite a lot, Claire."
"Lots of people want to babysit," I say, taking the offered fruit and sitting cross legged in front of him, our knees touching. I like this new spot of his by the caves better than the beach. It's more intimate.
"What are you escaping from today?" Desmond asks, mango juice dribbling down his chin.
I shrug, widening my eyes in the chance of looking innocent and hoping he can't read minds as well as tell the future. "Just need a break, that's all."
"You should have some time alone."
"I'd rather be here than all alone," I confess, grinning as I take a bit of my mango, lifting my shirt just enough to expose my belly in order to wipe the juice from my chin. I hear Desmond's breath catch and smile to myself before lowering the material, tugging it back into place. "I think Charlie's writing a song for Aaron. A sort of lullaby because he's been having trouble sleeping."
Desmond inclines his head. Not really a nod. I think it's what he does when he's thinking over something. "I hope it works."
"Thanks."
An awkwardness hangs between us that hasn't been there before. I don't like it. I don't like feeling as if I can't speak freely. "So, uh, Desmond," I say, trying to find the right words to voice something I've been dying to know more about. "You keep telling me how 'dark' you are. What did you do that was so bad?"
Desmond shakes his head. "That is not a story for the likes of you, Claire."
"Then who would you tell it to?"
"Not you," he insists, drawing his lips into a thin, determined line. "I won't burden you with that."
"But I'm asking," I say. "I want to know. Sometimes if you talk to someone, it makes the burden lighter." I reach out a hand, wrapping my fingers around his, and stroking long, even lines down the back of his hand with my thumb. "Don't think you're all alone, Desmond. You're not. You've got me if you're willing."
"I'm not," he says, pulling away. He even goes so far as to stand up to create distance. "Go back to Charlie. I'm sure he's got some inner wounds that need healing."
"Go back to Charlie!" I say, pushing myself roughly to my feet. "Go back to Charlie! Why do you always tell me to go back to Charlie?"
"Because he, unlike me, welcomes your attention."
Now it's my turn to have my breath catch in my throat, hissing raggedly through my teeth. "You don't mean that, Desmond. I thought. . .I thought you liked our talks together."
"You never come here to talk, Claire, and we'd both be hurting a good man if I ever even for one second entertain a thought of that nature for you." He forks both hands through his hair. "I say "Go back to Charlie' because that is where you belong."
"I'm tired of people deciding my life for me!" I cry, balling my hands into angry fists at my side. "I am not helpless! I can make my own decisions and I. . .and I can damn well decide where I do and do not belong."
Tears. I'm crying. In front of Desmond.
Oh, bugger.
He notices, holding out a hand and starting the beginnings of an apology but I run before he can get more than "Claire, I'm--" out.
Why do I make such bloody poor choices when it comes to men? Why do I let myself fall into the same patterns time and again? I'm supposed to be fixing that. That's what I told myself after Thomas left. No more poor choices. I was going to find myself a nice steady bloke who had a real job and wasn't one of those struggling artist types. Instead, I have a ex-drug addict musician for a semi-boyfriend and I'm chasing after an angst riddled physic.
When will I ever learn?