The Fallout (The Therapist #3) - W.S. Greer Page 0,1

of us. You up for the challenge?”

I’m not dumb, although I've kept myself up many nights questioning whether that’s true or not. I know what Eli is doing, and I decide to go along with it.

“Sure, let’s see if we can do it.” I swallow hard, watching as the corners of Eli’s mouth lift once again.

I move into the living room, sitting on the cream-colored loveseat in front of the ivory coffee table. The fireplace crackles in front of me beneath the eighty-inch TV mounted on the wall. Eli brings two glasses of wine and sets them both on the table in front of me. Ironically, a bit of red wine glides down the side of my glass and forms a tiny puddle on the table.

“Look at that. The perfect amount,” Eli says as he leans forward and wipes the red liquid away with his fingers. He’d never let the wine ruin the table. He lifts his glass and takes a big gulp before looking at me with expectation in his eyes. I see hope and pleading in his face as he watches me.

When I look at the wine-filled glass, I see more than just wine. I see Eli’s desire to move on. I see his need for normalcy. I see it as a big red question mark, and the question is whether or not I’m ready to move on. Am I ready to let go? Am I able to get back on the road we’ve been on since that day in the bar when we saw each other and made the entire room disappear, leaving nothing but the two of us together. Am I ready?

My heart feels like each beat is that of a bass drum, pounding in my chest, rattling my rib cage. My nerves are sensitive, and the urge to cry is just as strong now as it was before, and I know everything will always be this way if I don't push through it and move on. I have to fight past this feeling, and force us back on track. I must overcome it, and the first step is picking up the wine glass. I must answer the question.

Before the urge to withdraw can consume me, I exhale, pick up the glass, and take two large gulps that drain the alcohol by half. I don't even put the glass back on the table. I keep it in my hand, ready for the next big drink.

“So,” I begin, still feeling nervous. “How was work?”

2

~ Demi ~

He’s been talking for an hour, and all I can think about is his hand on my leg. His palms are rough from working construction with his dad as a kid, which is how he ended up owning a contracting company today. He has callouses, and his skin feels like sandpaper. However, I’m not sure if it’s his skin or my own thoughts that make me feel uncomfortable.

“I laughed my ass off, babe. I wish you could’ve been there,” Eli says, distracting me from myself. “I know you would’ve laughed so hard because of the way he tried to catch himself before he fell into the concrete. I mean, I was pissed that he messed up the pour and the guys had to redo it, because that cost me money, but the way he threw his arms up in the air and let out that little girlish scream was just too funny. If I ever look that ridiculous in public, just please divorce me.”

I block the storm of thoughts that threaten to take over my mind.

“I’m sure it was hilarious,” I say, my eyes dropping to his hand again. I’m wearing a navy blue skirt that lifts when I sit down, so his palm is resting on my skin. The heat reverberates off his flesh, and I feel it crawling up my inner thigh. The chill of the evening joining forces with the warmth of the alcohol in my stomach has me feeling different tonight. I feel a level of hope I haven’t felt in a long time. Is this the night?

As I look up at Eli, I see him glaring down at my hand, too. He sees what I see—feels what I feel, and I can tell from the look on his face that he's thinking the same thing I am. Is tonight the night? We exhale at the same time, just as our eyes meet.

“You're so beautiful, Demi,” Eli says in a low whisper that reverberates through my entire body.