THESE THORN KISSES, page 41
And then I get to work.
On his truck.
I wave my arms around as I go. I make circles and lines as I fill his truck with colors. With flowers and stars. With clouds and rainbows. I even go so far as to make unicorns on his black masculine fucking vehicle.
Take that, Conrad Thorne.
Take it.
Because I’m going to shove magical horses and pink glitter down his throat even if it’s the last thing I do. I’m going to fill his dark life with bright sunshine and he can’t stop me.
He can’t stop me from giving him his dream in Technicolor.
And then I’m going to knock at his door so he can see what I made for him.
So he can look at it and weep, all alone in his house.
Only I don’t have to knock at his door.
He opens it all by himself as I reach the end of the graffiti.
He emerges out of his house, all sweaty and panting — probably from kicking the ball all alone in his backyard like he usually does — his overgrown hair messy and hanging in his eyes, looking like the man of my dreams.
Although for a second, something about him gives me pause.
The fact that there are… streaks of paint. On his bare forearms and also his white t-shirt.
There’s one on the side of his jaw and I…
“Bronwyn,” he says like he can’t believe I’m here, standing in front of his house. “What… What the…”
At his deep but bewildered voice, I decide to not care.
I don’t care why he’s got paint on him.
It’s none of my business.
He made it so.
So he can go to hell right now.
“Hi,” I say, waving at him while still holding my spray paint, which I then throw away in his yard.
Wiping his parted mouth with the back of his hand, he walks further out, getting to the edge of his porch, squinting at me, at the can that I just threw away, before focusing on his truck.
“I thought I’d make you something,” I tell him in a false, cheery voice. “Since I never got to finish that wall in your bedroom. Plus I think you definitely deserve a gift after how you helped me earlier today. You keep doing that, don’t you? Helping me. Helping me see things. You helped me see your brother, which I never would’ve done if not for you.”
That gets him moving.
My dig about his brother.
Now instead of simply staring at what I’ve drawn on his truck, his eyes snap back to mine. His eyes clear out as well. The slight look of confusion goes away and they become alert, flashing before he moves.
Before he bounds down the stairs of his house, strides across the driveway and comes for me.
And I’m ready for him.
I’m so totally ready with a wide stance and a lifted chin.
Reaching me, he growls, running his eyes up and down my dress that’s now covered in pink and purple and red and yellow splotches. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“I told you. Making you a special gift for helping me out with Ledger today.”
He clenches his jaw at ‘Ledger.’
“How’d you get here?” Before I can joyfully inform him how, he takes the right guess. “You take the bus?”
“Yes,” I tell him enthusiastically. “Although I will say that if it wasn’t my only choice, I wouldn’t have taken it. People kinda stared at me a lot in my outfit.” His eyes become slits at this but I don’t care, I keep going, “Which I specifically wore for you. Because I know you like me in this. My ball gown, my lipstick. All my jewelry. My hair.”
Then, widening my eyes, I add in, “But please, don’t tell Ledger, okay? I don’t want to start off our relationship with him knowing that I’m dressing up for another man. For his brother no less. I mean how tacky and —”
“Stop,” he booms, his hands fisted at his sides, “saying his name.”
I clench my own fists then, at his anger, his jealousy.
He’s jealous, isn’t he?
Of his own brother.
He’s jealous even though he ended things.
He gave me up three weeks ago.
“Why?” I ask, staring into his angry blue eyes. “Why shouldn’t I say his name? He’s the right guy for me. He’s young. He’s got a bright future. He’s going places. He lives in New York. You said so yourself.”
“I’m not —”
“As opposed to you,” I cut him off, leaning toward him. “A liar.”
“What?”
I shake my head then. I clench my teeth. I somehow clench every single part of my body as I say, “That’s what you are, aren’t you? A fucking liar.”
“Bronwyn,” he warns.
I chuckle harshly at his stern voice. Angrily, bitterly, as I say, “I should’ve known. I should’ve fucking known that you’d do something like this. You’ve done it before, right? You’ve lied to me before. Not once. But twice. You lied about not remembering me. Back when you started at St. Mary’s. And then you lied about not wanting me when in fact you were obsessed with me. And I forgave you. I forgave you both times. But not anymore. I’m not going to forgive you this third time. Because I know. I know you’re lying again.”
He’s seething. I can see that.
He’s burning up and I want to tell him to pace himself.
Because I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.
We’re only covering the basics right now.
“Aren’t you, Conrad?” I prod him. “You’re lying about being with her.” I raise my hand then before he can say something, “Oh, not exactly. Not in those words. You never said to me that you were going with her. You never said those exact words but you implied it. That day in your office. When I kept asking you and asking you. When I kept poking and prodding as to why. Why, Conrad? Why did we have to end? You used her as an excuse. You used the excuse you knew I’d accept. You used the excuse you knew would make me stop asking questions. Because you didn’t want me to ask questions. Because if I had, then you’d have to admit the truth. Then you’d have to face it. And you didn’t want to. And I’ll also tell you why. It’s because you, Conrad Thorne, are afraid.”
He flinches at my words.
And it’s not a small flinch, it’s a big one.
It’s more of a spasm running through his body. As if I’ve jolted him.
And like the idiot I am, I want to wrap my arms around him. I want to give him comfort.
But no.
I’m not his wallflower anymore. I can’t give him my softness.
All I can give him now is the truth.
The things that I didn’t see before but now I do. After the party.
“You know, all this time, I kept thinking about it and thinking about it,” I say, my heart pounding and pulsing and thrashing in my chest. “I kept thinking, why don’t you want that new job in New York? Why do you keep turning it down? Why do you want to stay here if you hate it? If you hate this house. If you think it’s a dump. If you hate this town. Why don’t you want to see that you love coaching? That’s why you do it all the time. You do it during the week. You do it on weekends. You do it because you have such a passion for it. But you don’t want to admit that.
“And I kept thinking, why? I kept thinking, how can I convince you to see it? To see that even though what you dreamed for yourself didn’t pan out, doesn’t mean that what you have now is any less worthy, is any less joyful. It doesn’t mean that you can’t want new things, that you can’t build a new life, a life that you have made for yourself despite everything. That’s what you always tell people, don’t you? That you should make your own life. So I kept wondering why. Why won’t you do the same for yourself? Why won’t you dream new dreams? And the reason is that you’re afraid. You’re afraid to dream.”
At this I can’t stop it.
I can’t stop the tear that rolls down my cheek despite everything.
Despite telling myself to be strong and aloof and distant like he usually is.
At the sight of my tears, his flinch is even bigger and he takes a step toward me but I step back.
I don’t want him to touch me.
I don’t want him to touch me ever.
And I’m glad that he doesn’t push. That he can see it on my face, my determination.
So he stands there, his chest moving up and down in waves, his fists clenched, his eyes studying me so closely, so minutely.
So torturously.
“You’re afraid to wish for things,” I say, when I’ve finally managed to get that lump of emotion down my throat. “Because if you don’t, then you won’t have to go through the pain if they don’t come true. If you don’t dream then you won’t have to go through the pain if those dreams break. Because you went through it once. Years and years ago. You went through the pain back when you were a teenager. You wanted to go pro. You wanted to get out of this town. You wanted a rich beautiful girl. You shot for the stars and fell short. You told me that. And it hurt. It hurt so badly that you shut yourself out. You closed all your doors. You stopped focusing on yourself and made others the center of your world. Because it’s easier that way. It’s easier to be angry and alone and to stand still because if you walk, you could stumble. You could fall. You could get hurt. And you don’t want to.”
And then I pause because I don’t know if I should say it.
I don’t know if I should let him in on this secret.
A secret that I’ve only now discovered.
But I’m done with this.
I’m done with him. I’ll tell him and I’ll leave him to ponder over it. And I’ll go back to my dorm and I’ll do what I’ve been doing all evening, ever since the get-together ended: cry and sob for my stupid love story.
For this stupid man that I can’t stop loving.
Taking a hiccupping breath, I continue, “It’s easier, isn’t it, Conrad, to end things with a girl than to actually admit that you’ve fallen in love with her.”
I thought it would make him flinch again. It’s the biggest blow I’ve dealt him yet.
The blow I specifically came to his house to deal him.
But it doesn’t.
My words don’t make him flinch.
They only make him stare at me, my tears that are still falling, with more agony, more torment.
“You love me,” I continue, hoping to finish soon so I can leave. “Don’t you? Not her. Me. I’m your d-dream girl. You told me that. That I could be someone’s dream girl and you meant yourself. That night at my dad’s party before… she came. Maybe you loved her in the beginning, when things s-started between us, but you love me now. You love me and —”
I stop talking because I think he’s reached his limit.
I think he’s done all he can to hold himself still and away from me, because he comes for me then.
He comes for my waist that he puts his hands on, gripping the flesh tightly, so tightly and gloriously, and pulling me off the ground. He plasters my front to his and with me wrapped around him — because my thighs and my arms can’t help but wind themselves around his heated and familiar body, despite the fact that touching him wasn’t my plan — he walks a few steps and settles me against his truck.
He grabs my tear-streaked face with both his hands and rasps, “Stop crying, Bronwyn. Please. Just stop crying, baby.”
“D-don’t call me that.”
Pressing his hands on my cheeks, he leans closer and I squeeze my thighs around his hips, feeling his weight, his heat, his body that I haven’t felt in weeks.
That I never thought I’d feel again in this lifetime.
“I’m sorry,” he tells me, looking me in the eyes. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
I push at his shoulders. “No, you don’t get to say sorry to me anymore. You don’t get to… I loved you and you lied. You –”
He goes still at my declaration.
Still and frozen.
His face is even more stunned and stricken than it was back when he witnessed Ledger asking me out on a date. And I think that maybe I can break free of him, now that I’ve shocked him with my truth.
A truth I wasn’t planning on telling him.
But you know what, fuck it.
Fuck him.
I don’t care. I just want to get away from him.
But when I go to push him again, he doesn’t budge.
He doesn’t go anywhere.
His body is like a mountain and his hold feels like forever.
“You love me,” he repeats, his eyes fierce, hair grazing the side of his cheeks.
I punch his chest again. “Yes.” Another punch and a push. “You fucking asshole.”
He digs his fingers in my hair. “Since when?”
“Since always,” I snap, staring into his beautiful, shocked face.
“Always.”
“Yes,” I bite out. “Since I met you that night and you stopped to help me. Since you inspired me. Since you came to St. Mary’s. I’ve loved you since forever. And you lied to me. You let me believe that you wanted someone else. For three whole weeks. For three whole weeks, you let me believe that my love was destined to suffer. That my love was doomed because the man I’m in love with wants to be with someone else. You —”
“Your love is doomed anyway,” he thunders then, finally coming out of his shock.
“What?”
His hands, which had moved down to my waist and the back of my neck in order to keep me safe when I was struggling, wake up now as well.
His fingers dig into my flesh tightly, like hooks, like thorns as he says, “You think I’m afraid to dream, yeah? To want things for myself. To wish for things. To walk into the fucking unknown. Yeah I was. At one time. I was afraid of the pain, the agony, the hurt of broken dreams. I didn’t want new goals. New ambitions. I didn’t want any of that. And yes I lied to you because of that. I pushed you away. I used the one thing that I knew you’d believe. Even though I haven’t wanted Helen for a long time now. I thought I did but… no. Not since you. But the reason I stayed away, for three whole weeks, despite every cell in my body screaming at me to confess the truth, is because I’m afraid for you.
“I’m afraid that I can’t give you the things that you deserve. I’m afraid that I don’t have anything to give you. And I don’t. This here, this is my life. This is all I’ve known, whether by choice or circumstance. This town, this job. And yes, I tried to shoot for the stars once and it didn’t pan out and it fucking hurt and I closed myself off, but that doesn’t even matter anymore. Fuck that. Fuck soccer. Fuck her. Fuck every single thing that I’ve ever wanted before you and failed to get. What matters is that I can’t afford to fail now, do you understand? I can’t afford to not have things pan out now. Because the stakes are too high. The stakes are you and I’d be damned if I failed you. I’d be damned if I dragged you down with me. I’d be damned if I kept you for my own selfish reasons when you’re meant to be out there, making art, living your life, living your dream. I’d be damned, Bronwyn, all right? I won’t do it. I can’t.”
He swallows, his eyes roving over my face frantically, urgently as he rasps, “You’re too important. You’re too fucking precious. You’re my… You’re my soft, fragile, velvet wallflower and I’d be damned if I crushed you with my rough hands and my thorn life when I have nothing to give you.”
When he finishes, I’m a wreck.
I’m a mess.
Of tears and breaths.
And love.
I’m a mess made of love for this man.
God.
God.
What is wrong with me?
What is wrong with him?
Why can’t he see that he’s already given me so much? He’s already given me everything.
My hands, which were pushing him away only a few seconds earlier, latch onto him now. My thighs tighten around his hips and my fingers fist whatever they can find on his body, his t-shirt, his hair and pull him closer as I whisper, “But you already have. You already have given me so much, Conrad, don’t you see? You’ve given me everything. Without even asking. Without even saying a word. You’ve set me free. You’ve made me see myself, embrace myself not once but twice.
“And you did it because that’s who you are. Inspiring and wonderful and protective and strong. So you can’t fail. You can’t. Not with me. Because I love you for who you are. I’ve loved you for who you are. I’ve loved you even when I thought you loved someone else and I love you now when I know you love me back. I choose you for who you are. You’re the center of my universe. You’re my gravity. And all I want is you. Just you. The way you are. My thorn. My dream man.”
As soon as I finish, he comes for me again. This time for my mouth, and he kisses me.
And even though I know I shouldn’t kiss him — he lied to me; he’s been torturing me, torturing himself for the past three weeks — I do.
I kiss him back.
I kiss him back to show him that I love him and the only thing I want from him is him.
Something I didn’t even think was possible.
Something that even I didn’t dare dream about.
A dream about us.
Together.
So I kiss him back and tell him that now I will. I will dream of us and he needs to dream about us too.
But then a voice comes and splinters the moment. The same voice that made everything fall apart on the night of my dad’s birthday party.
“Con?”
We break apart then, our mouths coming off of each other.
And just like that night, I don’t know what to do. I’m frozen. I’m useless.
Not him though.
He presses the back of my head and tucks me in his chest, hiding my face, as Helen takes in the scene.
A girl wrapped around Conrad and an explosion of colors and paints.
Graffiti on his truck.
And when she makes out what the graffiti is — a girl in a yellow ball gown with tons of jewelry — and that’s the girl who’s wrapped around Conrad, her voice is even higher than before. “Bronwyn?”
And just like that, I think, everything ends before it has even had the chance to begin.
