My mouth is dry.

The exhaustion of the day catches up to me, and I find myself blinking to stay awake. Beside me, Cheyenne is fighting sleep as well, drifting closer and closer to me so that, by the time the movie is over, she’s fully propped up against me. For a woman who’s fit and taut and muscular, she’s also soft. My hand slides down as the credits roll, and it comes to rest against her waist, my fingertips brushing the upper swell of her hip.

I’m nearly asleep, but her proximity, the feel of her against me is heady.

But eventually I can’t fight sleep any longer, and I drift off.

* * *

I start, blink, and realize I’ve fallen asleep. The TV has turned off on its own to conserve energy. I crane my neck and glance at the red numbers of the microwave: 2:23 am.

Shit. We slept for a long time. I quickly re-cap the last several hours—my therapy appointment was at seven, it lasted for an hour and a half, and then Cheyenne drove me home, and then the movie…

Cheyenne stirs against me, stretches, making a sound in the back of her throat that has my heart clenching for some odd reason, something to do with how cute it is, how intimate a sound it is.

“Time’s it?” she asks.

“Two-thirty.”

She jerks upright. “Shit. I’ve got a client at nine, I’ve gotta go.”

I lever myself to my feet, leaning on my cane. But I forget how weak my knee is and put too much weight on it and stumble. And she’s there, catching me. Close. So close. She’s looking up at me, hazel-green eyes full of things I don’t know how to interpret.

“Okay?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

And she hasn’t moved away, and somehow, for some reason, her arms are around my waist…or one is, the other resting on my chest. My breath comes slowly, deeply, because my arms are around her too, resting on her back and sliding lower, and she’s not doing a damned thing to stop me.

She blinks, and her tongue slides across her lips, and my eyes follow that movement.

I refuse to think, just let whatever is going to happen happen.

She smells like shampoo and faintly of sweat, and she’s small and soft in my arms, and her chest is pressed up against mine, breasts that even a sports bra can’t hide despite her svelte, athletic build.

Fuck me, I want to kiss her so bad. I’ve been so lonely, dealing with such wrenching heartbreak for so long. I held myself back from making a move too soon with Kylie, wanting the time to be right. I waited, and I waited too long. I don’t want to make that mistake again. I’m not going to let fear hold me back any longer.

So I lean in and I feel her breath on my lips, feel her fingers curling in my Under Armour shirt…and I feel her lips, soft, damp, warm, against mine…

But then she’s backing away slowly and carefully, but decisively. “Ben…god, I can’t. We can’t.” She waits until she’s sure of my balance, thinking of me even now.

Embarrassment, hurt, and disappointment all war within me. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

She reaches toward me, but doesn’t touch me. “Don’t apologize, Ben. It was as much me as you. But I just… I can’t.” She lets out a long, shaky sigh. “I have a daughter your age, Ben. And I’m your therapist. You’re my client. I just can’t let this…I just can’t.”

I nod. “I get it.” I shutter my emotions, shove them down, forcing a casualness into my voice that I don’t feel. “You’re a great therapist, Cheyenne. For real. You’ve helped me a lot over the last month. I just hope…I hope this doesn’t affect our working relationship.”

She smiles, but it’s strained and slightly closed, now. “It’ll be fine.” She lets out another breath, and then rubs her eyes. “I have to go. It’s late and I live on the other side of town.”

And now that I’m paying attention to anything other than how I feel, I see how tired she is. There are dark circles under her eyes. She seems to sag for a moment, and then gathers her strength and straightens up.

“Cheyenne, maybe you should…” I hesitate to offer, considering what just happened. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

She smiles and shrugs. “Oh, sure. I was an ER nurse for a long time, remember. I’m used to it.”

I gesture at the couch. “You can stay here, you know.”

She shakes her head and moves toward the door. “No, I should go. But thank you.”

I follow her to the front door, leaning on my cane. She pauses with the door open, and I wasn’t expecting it, intending to follow her through and watch her go from the front step. So when she stops and turns back, I’m right there, and she bumps into me. And now my arms are around her again, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking, but I’m milliseconds away from trying to kiss her again.

She stumbles away from me, less carefully this time. Her eyes seem pained, haunted, as if pulling away is difficult for her. “Ben, stop. Please don’t.”

I back away. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Cheyenne. I’m sorry.”

She stays in place, hands over her face. She suddenly seems so tired, so small. “You don’t know how I wish I could…it’s been so long, and—” She shakes her head. “But I can’t. Not with you, not now. I just can’t. I’m sorry, I really am.”

She walks away then, and her feet drag. Her shoulders are bowed, as if the pressure of refusing my kiss, twice, is too much.

“Cheyenne?” I call. She stops with one foot in the cab, holding on to the roof. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive? You seem really tired.”

She smiles faintly. “I’m fine, Ben. I didn’t sleep well last night is all. But thank you.”

She climbs into the truck, closes the door, and starts the engine. Backs out. I stand in the doorway, the warm San Antonio night wrapped around me like a blanket. I watch her as she turns onto the main road, and I watch as she waits to make a left turn. There is no traffic and the streets are quiet. I’m about to go back inside when the light turns green and she steps on the gas.

And then I see it. I see the oncoming older model red Mustang run the light.

She doesn’t see him. She’s too tired to check for traffic, probably focused on the light ahead of her.

Her white truck is halfway through the intersection when the Mustang slams into her driver’s side door, going forty or fifty miles per hour.




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