An old-ish piece of writing. Ah, rebellions of the heart.
She’d stayed awake a long time pondering the rightness of her world that night. Her world. Strange, she’d thought, because she had everything she had ever dreamed of, and more. The stars were aligned, her Prince Charming was still underfoot, and she still wore his promise on her finger.
The storm had passed.
And yet her storm had not yet passed. Her storm, her bitter and cynical and utterly wrong storm had not yet crawled under her skin and stoked wild fire to her core. He’d not yet caused storm after storm after storm of liquid limbs and desperate tears and more of the same, more of the different (especially).
He tore her apart in ten thousand different kisses and frigid black stares. He hurt her, even when he fucked her like he loved her, because in some secret part of her she didn’t want to listen to, she knew Darren Jones would put her away like a dirty wet rag sooner or later. Sooner or later, he’d tire of her and call up an acquaintance-stranger and “see her later”. She knew it, she knew him.
Worst of all, she hated the beggar she became when he did walk away. Lily prided herself on her pristine pedigree but where Darren was concerned, she was chagrined to admit to herself, she hardly ever acted like a lady.
That, she wholly blamed on him, damn his eyes.
And yet storm after storm after storm, she still hankered after him like a bitch in heat. That was shameful, and prickled her hide because she wasn’t that kind of girl.
Damn his eyes.
Sometime later, when she’s attempting to get a grip on herself for the umpteenth existential pre-quarter-life crisis, Lily mentally revisits that night, that bittersweet night where Harry had slept peacefully close to her, his breath even and warm on her nape and his legs brushing hers, and she wonders what it might be like now. There was security in his proximity, a sense that the pieces were gradually coming to place, like the pieces on a chessboard.
Checkmate. She smiles slowly, amused at the comparison she’d made.
But then she remembers the crescendo of her heartbeat that night, something that had felt like a warning tattoo against her ribcage.
Her blood had felt strange in her veins. The pearls around her neck had felt like a manacle. The ruby ring at her finger had felt cold, lifeless. She’d felt… alone. Harry was so far. Too far.
Realising this now pains her, because it’s back to square one, isn’t it. Her entire life story is one big tale, no more, and it swept grandly around her without leaving so much as a trace and she’s lost now, with no tether to hold. It’s a scary, hollow place in her heart.
Because, you see, Lily Wilson loves Darren Jones. Only he’s the utterly wrong one to love.
And she has no reference to guide her.
The storm rages on within her, in her heart and in her head. She’s terrified of the outcome, because she’s pretty sure what both – her head and her heart, most of all, the traitor that seems the masochist in the equation – would dictate.
Her head rebels, only it seems her heart has always been the headstrong one.
Damn his eyes.