Clear and Bright: Chapter Thirty Six: More Than Enough

"Don't make light of the way I love you, Claire."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not, Jaimin. I'm trying to–"

"You're trying to get your way, but–"

"I swear I'm doing it honestly."

"You wouldn't go all day without eating."

"Not usually, no... but I did. Today."

"Claire, if you're–"

"I'm hungry." And you know you can't ignore that. Or "And cold."

And he doesn't for a single second, the cold part, anyway, and in less than, has his coat off and is wrapping it around me, and with his arm around it, is leading me up the walk and through the front door.

And once we're behind it, but only just, he looks at me. Hard. Searching, I know, for truth. And since I know he'll find it, I stand motionless and wait.

It takes only seconds for him to find it, and though it angers and annoys him that it existed for him to, he doesn't waste so much as a breath on it. "Is there anything here that I could turn into any semblance of a meal for you? Or even that you were going to attempt to not do for yourself?"

At least he still has his sense of humor. But then again, he was simply stating my never questionable truth... as he interprets it. I don't happen to think there's anything wrong with cheese sandwiches, and have, in fact, often considered them meals.

Of course, that was before I had my own personal chef–who would never–at my beck and call. "I didn't bring any bread and cheese, if that's what you were indirectly asking. I didn't bring anything, because I wasn't planning to... well, I didn't plan this at all." This, that I don't want to focus on again yet, since I finally got him to take his off of it.  "There's probably some spaghetti in there, though. In the kitchen, I mean. And, yes, the kind that comes in a box. And probably a jar or two of the sauce you–"

"Will NEVER let touch your mouth."

I love you... "But there isn't anything else. And I'm hungry. And you don't want to take me home..."

"That's not true, Claire," he says simply.

And I don't need him to say more than that. I don't need him to clarify which part of what I said isn't, even though he turned and walked right back out the door to, I have no doubt, prove to me what else might not be.

Which is why I stay where I am. In the exact place where he left me. And do so without so much as a whisper of smothering panic. Because I know he'll come right back. And would never not. He'd feed me that jar of sauce before he'd leave me, hungry or not.

But he meant what he said, and comes back quickly just like I knew he would. And with a box of his own, that, after turning the lock on the door, and pausing briefly to look at my still-wet canvas, he carries straight into the kitchen.

And this time I follow him.

Because after what he just saw, I don't want him out of my sight. Or hearing distance of my mouth.

Which will have to wait to try to explain, because his is moving. "Not even any flour, Claire?"

"Flour?"

"Yes, flour."

"No... I wouldn't even know what to do with flour. Is it something important?"

"It is to someone who was determined not to cook you pasta that came out of a box."

"Oh." I eye the tomatoes he just pulled from the one he carried in and try a smile. "I promise not to tell anyone, especially since it's my fault that you have no choice. If you're willing, that is... to set aside your chefly pride to prevent me from starving."

"You could have not starved a lot more decadently if you'd have–"

"I know," I say before he can finish. "I put the clouds over my own head today."

"Because I put something over it."

I nod, too stunned by his admittance, though vague, to speak. And by his surrender of that pride I mentioned, as he pulls the box of spaghetti from the open and mostly empty cupboard and lays it on the counter with a pained and heavy sigh. Before he finally nods in return and then turns away from me, finding a large pot in a lower cupboard and carrying it to the sink.

He doesn't turn to look at me when he speaks again. "Don't worry, I'll feed you without you having to talk to me. Or be close to. You can go back to your painting. Unless you're afraid to turn your back on me."

Oh, Jaimin... "I'm not afraid to do that," I tell him, and move closer to him. Closer and closer until I'm right behind him, and close enough to touch. I keep my hands on his coat that's still around me, and wrap it tighter around, as if it were his arms and not just what kept them warm before it made me, and rest my head against his back. "I'm only afraid of how you might interpret it if I did. If I was ever stupid enough to do such a stupid thing."

He doesn't say anything, and I feel the struggle that his silence is for him in his body. In its stillness but not. And when he finally moves, I think he's going to turn around and pull me into his arms that I'm so desperately craving. And so painfully aching for...

But desperate and painful are all I get to feel, because he only reaches forward to turn on the tap in front of him.

The kitchen is quiet but for the sound of the water filling the pot. And it bothers me, that deafening silence, because I know how much it bothers him, but I don't know what to break it with. What to try again to.

We have a lot of things to talk about. Things that paint us both in an unflattering light. And a just plain wrong. But at this moment, I'm not sure that shining an even brighter light on any of it is a good idea, or one that will help us.

Once full, he moves away from me and carries the pot to the stove, still without a word, and without so much as a glance at me before or after, and I can't bear it anymore. Being so near to him, so within his line of sight, and not hearing or feeling or seeing myself in it.

"I like it when you watch me," I say. "When you can't take or keep your eyes off of me. And when you don't want to. And choose not to...

"I like it so much better than this."

"You came here because I was watching you, Claire," he says to that, finally breaking his silence. "And because you didn't like it."

He wasn't so selfish as to withhold his eyes from me as he spoke that truth I can't argue, but now that they're on me just the way I wanted them, I don't know what to do with them.

Or exactly what to say to him. "I know that looking at me isn't enough. That seeing me in front of you isn't, no matter how real and absolutely belonging to you I am. Or how needing of you I am..."

"Needing of me because you're hungry, you mean."

"No... not because of that," I say. And then add "Not only, not ever only" when those eyes I love so much challenge me to tell the absolute truth.

And he doesn't say anything to that so much more I tried to give him, and only stares at me, telling me that it wasn't enough.

"We're getting married here," I say now, and tear my eyes from his to look out the window to the not in bloom yet field beyond it. "Right out there...

"And what I need... is for us to do that purely. And honestly. Unless, of course, you don't want that anymore. Or me..."

"Is that what you believe, Claire? That I don't? Or wouldn't, just that easily?"

"No."

"Yet you said it. Made it a real and ridiculous possibility by speaking it out loud."

"You've told me many times never to turn myself off to you. I was merely following your orders, in a purely honest way, and letting you hear everything, even if what was in my stupid head was wrong or ridiculous in every."

"Your head isn't stupid, Claire, and I'd never call it, or you, that."

"No, I know you wouldn't. But, Jaimin, doing what you did... above it and behind my back... told me that you think I am."

"If that's what you heard, then there's something wrong with your ears."

"No, I don't think that there is. I think there's something wrong with your mouth."

"Well, at least you're finally willing to admit that."

"You should have told me, Jaimin. And given mine the chance to tell you no. Or say anything at all."

"So should you have today."

"You're absolutely right about that. I should have. And I admit that whole–and broken–heartedly. And sorrowfully. But I shouldn't have to. Admit or feel any of those things... because you shouldn't have given me a reason to."

"I'm not sorry that I installed the cameras, Claire. I can't feel sorry for needing to see you, always, in one perfect and beautiful piece."

"You know that I'm not perfect, Jaimin. You even admitted it just a minute ago... that there's something wrong with me... with my ears...

"And you've never really held back from me that you thought there was something wrong with my head, whatever terminology either of us use or used, now or ever, to describe it.

"And lets not forget about my mouth... that–"

"Should have told me how you felt."

"Yes, should have. Should have and didn't. Just like yours should have but didn't tell me what you'd done. Or were planning to before you had."

"So that yours could tell me no. Pointlessly, I might add, because I'd have still done it. And, if I had already, not have undone it."

I know that, but still... "But not having had the chance, not having been given one by you, to say anything, or feel about what you'd done or would have done anyway, even if you'd told me first... Jaimin, you didn't give my head or my heart or my ears any chance at all to think or feel or hear anything real or right, or even not ridiculous. You left me all alone, while not at all, to interpret it my own way. And you know me... far too well to have risked that happening. And happening to us."

"And you know me, Claire... far too well, too, unfortunately for you, and well enough that you should have stayed and fought."

"You mean pointlessly?" I ask him.

But it doesn't reach his ears in the way that I meant it, or meant for it to. "Staying would have been pointless? I see."

"No, Jaimin..."

"I never thought a day would come when I'd wish you would lie to me, Claire... but one has. It's here..."

"Fight, Jaimin. Not stay... FIGHT. It would have been pointless for me to fight with you about it, not stay to. Knowing you is knowing that. And that's all I was saying. I say enough stupid things on my own, don't try to help me. Please, don't ever do that."

He closes his eyes and it takes the air from my lungs. "Or that. Please, more than anything else you could ever do, not that...

"You'll break me, Jaimin. You'll–"

"Never do that, Claire," he says in a voice broken with understanding. And with guiltless guilt. "And what I did was just another way of me not."

"As you interpret it."

"Yes, as I do. And desperately want you to."



                                                                                ~




He sits with me as I eat, but that's all he does. Well, that, and cringe every time I take a bite. Which is so unnecessary...

Because the pasta may have come from a box, but what he did with it was done with love. And his brilliance, of course.

"I like it, so stop making that face."

"You're hardly a tough critic, Claire."

"You want critique? Because I can give it... because it's by no means perfect."

"Then by all means critique away."

"There's something wrong with it. Something... missing."

"Yeah, it's called freshness."

"No... it's called YOU."

"It's the same thing."

"No it's not. Because your interpretation of my critique is wrong."

"I assure you it isn't."

"There's nothing wrong with the way it tastes, Jaimin, though I promise you my tongue knows the difference between it and your fresh. Pasta, I mean, before you interpret that wrong."

"I told you I know your faces, Claire. And how smart you are. I wasn't going to interpret either incorrectly."

"Good. I'm glad. Now, back to my critique... there's nothing wrong with the food. The wrong is the way you served it to me."

"Would you have preferred it in a bowl?"

"No. The problem isn't the vessel. It's more the utensil."

"You can't eat spaghetti with a spoon, Claire. The utensil is the correct one."

"I'm not making myself clear. It's not the utensil so much as it is the hand that holds it. And delivers what's on it to my mouth."

His eyes fall from my face to the fork in my hand, and I know he understands now. Not that it gets us anywhere. "I think the hand that holds it is perfect. And the right one, on this particular evening."

"I don't."

"You don't have to go that far, Claire."

"It's not far to go, Jaimin. Less than a single step, actually. And far less far than where we are now because I went far too already."

"You went where you needed to go when you came here."

"And I'm trying to tell you where I need you to go now. You know, now... after you found me here where I was wrong to come alone. Alone without you, specifically. Which hopefully I didn't really need to clarify at all."

"You alone breaks my heart, Claire. The mere thought of it... but the reality of you alone without me..."

"Is a reality that you made not. And that I love you for. More than I've ever loved you for anything before."

"I was just being me, Claire. Me that loves you too much, and–"

"You could never do that. Love me too much. Never, Jaimin."

"Too wrong, then."

"No... not that, either. But maybe you could love me not enough."

"Whatever I've done wrong, Claire, please don't interpret it as that. Because that–"

"Then feed me. This food that you think is beneath me. And beneath you. With your hand that you think is the first. Think wrongly, to be absolutely clear.

"Feed me, Jaimin. Please. And show me that you do love me enough to. And that you still believe that I love you enough to let you."

"I know that you love me, Claire."

"I should think so."

"And you know that I love you."

"Yes. I DO."

"And that."

"I absolutely do. Just like you do–absolutely–how much I love getting my way."

"Yes. That would, in fact, be impossible to misinterpret, even for me."

"So, what are you waiting for?" I ask him, willing him with the simple question to let us go back to where we were before I came here. And before there was nothing over my head–that I knew of–except for sunshine and a few occasional (interpretation be damned) storm clouds.

And he takes the fork from my hand. Very gently, I might add. And then his eyes from me one more time, watching his own movements with intense focus, before extending his surrender–and the beneath us both sustenance I forced him to give me–to my mouth. "Just for you to open, Claire."






                                                                            ~




"Even if your flowers were in full, splendid bloom, you wouldn't be able to see them in the dark, Claire."

I turn my gaze from the kitchen window to where he stands at the sink, his on me instead of his task. "Don't be so sure about that, sweetheart. My sense of sight is extraordinary. Especially in splendid darkness."

"I think I believe you, actually. You know, since you're marrying me. If I can presume you still–"

"PRESUME. And give credit where it's due. To me. 'I'm smart' credit. Because only a stupid person–girl–a complete and utter idiot of one, wouldn't marry a man who does all of the cooking AND washes all of the dishes after."

He gives me a very brief glimpse of cocky, with an also very brief, but very effective in its brevity, glimpse of You're going to get it, and then turns back to his task of cleaning up after my (only by my interpretation) late night dinner.

But since there wasn't much of a mess to tend to, he's finished quicker than quickly. And behind me quicker than that, the towel he dried the dishes with still in his hands. Still in his hands and twirling... twisting around itself between them... the glimpse of You're going to get it getting clearer, and utterly impossible to misinterpret.

Or so I thought.

Because when he extends it to me, I don't feel the slightest sting. Or burn. Or sharp pain of any kind. Because when he extends it to me, he does so with it still in both of his hands. His hands that raise up in front of me and fall back down behind, the tightly twirled and twisted towel between them used only to pull me to him. And hold me there, tightly up against. "I do all of the cooking because I love you," he declares with pride.

And though I know more 'declarations' are surely coming from his always generous, to say the least, mouth, I can't resist interrupting him. "And yourself."

"Well, enough to never let you attempt to do any, or call anything you might be brave and foolish enough to ever dare to anyway, YES..."

Meanie...

"And for other reasons we're both fully aware of...

"But I do all of the dishes because I love your brilliant and delicately so hands, and don't want to see them wasting their aforementioned delicate brilliance on unnecessary, menial tasks that I could, and do, gladly perform."

"Remember that tomorrow when it's toilet scrubbing day."

"Consider it remembered."

"And by all means disregard my interruption and continue your sweet appraisal of my brilliant and delicately so features."

Yes, I'm a brat, we know this already.

"I had every intention of it, Claire." As does he, who I don't think is going to hold it back from me now, based on his change of demeanor and tone. And grip and pull on the towel that still holds me to him. "And while you may think you're about to hear an appraisal, sweet or otherwise, of your extraordinary in all ways to me mouth... or your extraordinarily PERFECT ass... my mind is at this moment on your feet."

He did have them in his lap, and in his masterful hands, just last night, but still... "My feet?"

"Yes, your feet. That, though they are, in fact, delicate, I don't find to be as equally brilliant. Or brilliant at all, to be exact, at least on this day."

On this day? What... Oh. Because on this day they–

He finishes my thought aloud. "Because on this day–"

Or starts to anyway, before I do so he doesn't have to. "They ran away. From you. And your brilliant, though not always, or possibly ever, delicate, eyes, which I love.

"And I promised you that I, and they–my feet, which are stupid, by the way–never would."

"I didn't call them stupid, Claire."

"You could. I wouldn't argue it. Or stomp them in any sort of tantrum or fit."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that last part, because you not stomping them will keep them delicate. Because when we get home, I may feel it necessary, and be unable to not, to take all of your shoes away. And you stomping them in all of their bare and delicate glory, may–"

"You won't have to," I declare with as much passion as I've ever spoken any other words to him. "I promise you won't."

With my mouth. That, like my stupid feet, should have never come here. To be held, like the rest of me against him, in his unyielding need for me. And under his unyielding gaze. Both of which I never want to be free of.

And the second of which I should never have tried to get out from under. Or misinterpret in any way. Because there's only one interpretation that truly matters, and it's his.

And just the way, the more than enough way, that he can't help but love me.

Clear and Bright: Chapter Thirty Five: At All and All In

It all makes sense now. All of the perfectly timed visits, all of the 20 Questions games, all of the things he knew with or without them. The details... and all of the strange-for-him model behavior after his typical and tyrannical normal...

He's been watching my every move. And everyone else's every in my space. And my air. That suddenly doesn't feel like mine at all.

Because, even though I would have shared it with him, would share anything I have with him, he didn't give me a chance to. He took it from me without giving me any. Or any trust, or any respect.

I would have been willing to discuss it... this thing he did...

Would have been willing to consider it... to some degree...

Out of respect and consideration for his peace of mind. And maybe even a little of mine. It's not entirely a bad idea... from a business standpoint. And a security. And I wouldn't be upset if I thought that was why he did it.

But I know that it's not.

He didn't have this surveillance system installed to protect what's mine. He did it to protect–and watch every move of–what's his. Me.

There's not an inch of space in my gallery that he can't see, apart from the bathrooms, from the comfort of his own office. He doesn't have to stand in his doorway to see or watch anything. Or pass through mine. He can sit down in this very chair that I'm sitting in now and watch and see it all.

And maybe not even have to.

That noise I've heard on his phone... that little bell or ping or whatever it is...

I never hear it when we're at home. When I've locked my doors for the night, and am tucked safely and happily behind ours with him.

Our door that I think there will be a storm raging behind tonight...

If I can make myself walk through it.



                                                                            ~




"Is everything alright, Claire?"

"Yes, Michel, everything's fine." He's not Jaimin, so lying is easy. "But I didn't see Jaimin... he wasn't in his office. I sat and waited for a few minutes, but he's obviously busy doing something somewhere else... and I really should get back and do some things, too." Because Emilie is busy... something I shouldn't know without her calling to tell me... 

"But before I go... Could you do something for me? Could you not tell Jaimin that I was here? Or, in there, at least?"

"Not tell him?"

"Yes, not. Please."

"Uh... well... "

"I'll tell him, of course. But I would really like to be the one to, if you'd be willing to let me?"

"Alright... " he relents. "But Claire... are you sure that you are?"

No. "Yes, I'm sure. I just have a bit of a headache coming on." Again...

"Would you like me to get you something for that? I–"

"No, it's alright, thank you, Michel. I have something across the street. I'll be fine in no time."

"Well, if you're sure... "

"I am," I lie again. "Have a good night, Michel. Or afternoon... " Or whatever it is. I don't know anything right now.

"You too, Claire," he says, telling me something, though I'm halfway out the door when I hear it.

Because I need to get to my own...

That aren't really mine at all, because Jaimin has made them his, too.



                                                                           ~



I've been sitting in my bathroom for twenty minutes. Or maybe hiding would be a better description. Because that's exactly what I have to do if I want any privacy. In my own special space.

Or what I would have to do...

If I had any anymore.

Because a bathroom isn't a special space. Or a sanctuary. Or any part, no matter how grand or pretty, of a dream realized.

It's merely a place.

Where you do things that you need. Get rid of things that you don't. Wash them away...

Whether the kind of dirt or grime you can see...

Or the kind that you can't. Because it's invisible. Or supposed to be. Because it's a secret you aren't supposed to know.

One that was being kept from you. And hidden.

That no matter how hard or how many times you try to wash or scrub away...

You just can't.

Believe me...

I tried.



                                                                          ~



I finally left my bathroom. And, with skin red and nearly raw, and not at all invisible, made it as far as my office. A space Jaimin can see me in. And where I can see him.

My version of him. My vision. The one I willingly shared with him.

The one with the beautiful face–though his always is–wearing the beautiful expression of love for me.

Sweet, pure, vulnerable love. Clear in every detail. Unhidden. Because his love for me is not a secret he's ever tried to keep from me.

With his watchful eyes or any other part of him.

His watchful eyes...

I love Jaimin's eyes. Love that they are watchful. That they're always on me. And the way that they always are. Adoring. Attentive. And even obsessive...

But this...

The way they're on me now while mine are on the his I brought to life...

I don't love. Or like at all.

And I don't know what to do.

Or say to him.

That he'll hear.

I just don't know.

So I say nothing at all.



                                                                          ~



It's been a fairly quiet afternoon at the gallery. But not on our street. I think everyone in Paris has been across it.

Which means Jaimin has been busy. And I have not. And have had a lot of time to dwell. On what he did.

On the microscope he put me under.

My head is pounding again...

But it's not the only discomfort I feel. Not the only misery I'm fighting to endure. Trying–for him, and for us–to handle.

I feel like I can't breathe. Like I'm suffocating. Being smothered. By the one person whose closeness I crave. Always want. And find comfort in. And happiness.

Even now...

I want it. Want him to soothe me. Give me air. Give me back my breath.

But I can't tell him that. Or ask him for anything. Because he's the one who made me need it this time. And I won't reward him for that by telling him I need him.

I won't do it.

No matter how hard it is to not.



                                                                           ~






I haven't seen or talked to Jaimin for hours. Since before the chaos ensued. Across the street and in my head.

And I haven't responded to the text he sent me about 45 minutes ago; the one that simply said I miss you.

Because all I could think when I read it was How? You can see me.

Something I've been wondering about. If he has. If he's been watching me. If he saw me read his message and not reply. Or reread it a dozen times after and still not. And if he knows why. Has any idea at all.

Or cares.



                                                                          ~



"Are you sure you're okay? You're not yourself at all, you haven't been for most of the day, and I don't want to just leave you..."

"I'm sorry, Emilie. I just have a lot of things on my mind, I guess. And another blasted headache. I'll be fine, though. You go ahead. And say hello to Matthieu for me."

"I will when I see him, I promise."

"Isn't he picking you up?" I ask her, and then realize how ridiculous that is, since he always comes in to get her when he does. Almost every night. And always on time, which it isn't now, because it's past.

"No, he had something come up today..."

"He's alright, I hope?"

"Oh, yeah, he's fine... one of his friends found out his girlfriend has been cheating on him for the last two months, and he's moving out of their place, effective the minute he found out. And they dropped off my car to me earlier while you were at Jouissance, so that he could help him with the moving without having to worry about losing track of time and forgetting to pick me up or something."

I knew that already, I suppose...

The dropping her car off part. Or a set of keys, anyway. Because I saw him hand them to her. From Jaimin's office...

Where I shouldn't have been able to see anything as it happened here. "It's awful to discover that someone you trust has been deceiving you. And doing, and hiding, things behind your back..."

"Yeah, unfortunately I know firsthand what that feels like..."

Me too...

"Which is just one reason among many that I love Matthieu so much. He's one of the most honest and trustworthy people I've ever known."

"I'm glad he is, Emilie. You deserve someone wonderful."

"We're a couple of lucky girls, I'd say."

Her beaming smile that accompanies her words makes me want to cry. Because I wore one this morning, too. Before I saw something that took it away.

And now makes me suddenly want to get. "Would you mind terribly giving me a lift home, Emilie? Jaimin is still swamped over there, and I rode with him this morning, as usual... and I'm really not in the mood for the chaos of Jouissance on a Friday night... and don't want to ask him to abandon his staff in it to take me..."

"Of course I wouldn't mind, Claire. I'd be happy to drop you."

"Thank you. I'll just grab my purse, and then we can get out of here."

Which he'll see me do instead of what his last message told me to.

To come where he could see me face to face.

Something that I just can't bring myself to do right now.

Or take. "Okay, I'm all set."



                                                                            ~



I didn't plan to do it.

When I asked Emilie for a ride home, I really did intend to go there. And stay.

But now I stand in my grandparents' house, an easel in front of me, and another wounded bird on the canvas it holds. And a brush in my hand. And that brush-holding hand, and my other not, trembling.

What in the world have I done?

And how did I not realize I was doing it until I had?

Hours after I had.

I even left him a note...

Before I did anything...

In our notebook that I left open on our bed.

The one full of promises and things we never want to forget.

I wrote in it...

Wrote this...

This thing that I did...

By coming here instead of staying there...

Or going to him...

And didn't even tear out the page...

I left it in that 'We never want to forget this' place and...

WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE?

And how can I undo it?

Tell him that I didn't mean it...

That it isn't what it looks like...

Or feels like...

Or sounds...

That the silence I gave him isn't.

Damn it!

What am I going to do?

Or say?

That could ever be enough to fix what I've done already?

That I didn't even give him the courtesy of hearing from me before I did it.

Or the chance to let me hear something. And see. Because he would have showed me...

Found a way to...

To make me see that my crazy brain was running away from me again.

He would have.

If I'd have let him.

Instead of just running to join it.

Running too far.

So much farther than too far.

Because if I ran a single inch away from him, it would be.

And I went so much farther than that. Just because he tried to keep me as close as he could. In his sight at all times. Under his watchful gaze...

That even now I feel like I am. I know it's crazy to say that... because of where I am... but I do. Feel like I can feel his eyes on me. His eyes that are tortured. I know they are. Unless...

Is it possible that he doesn't know?

That he hasn't been home yet?

Hasn't seen anything?

Or the nothing of me gone?

Maybe he's still at the restaurant... still too busy to know anything but that I didn't come to him for him to feed me. Or take me home.

It's possible...

Even though the clock on the wall tells me it's been hours...

My phone hasn't rang. At least I don't think it has. I suppose I might have been so lost in my painting that I didn't hear it...

But I don't think so. And because I don't, don't think he knows. And if that torture I think I can feel in his eyes that I can't see and that can't see me is real, then maybe it's just worry. Because he hasn't heard from me. Or seen me since I left our street.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Claire...

It is possible...

It's just not probable.

But if he knows...

Has seen and heard and felt...

Then why hasn't he– "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"



                                                                            ~



Breathe, Claire.

Just breathe.

It's only him.

The man who is exactly where you expected him to be. Wanted him to be. Wondered why he wasn't.

Where you are.

You just didn't expect him to be standing outside watching you be here through the window. In the dark. And the cold. And looking so...

Well, I don't know how to even describe how he looks. Name it or put words to it...

Because tortured doesn't even begin to...

Oh, Jaimin...

I'm so sorry...

So very... Open the door, you idiot! He can't hear you!

Of course he can't. And of course it's exactly what I need to do...

Open the door and let him in...

So that he can...

So, why am I still standing here staring at him through the glass? That he's still standing out there staring at me through? With that look in his eyes that I've never seen before? Or never seen exactly...

It's a little familiar...

It reminds me of the way he looked the day our engagement was announced. After he'd made me stay home. And then I didn't, because I spent the day out with Loring. A day he spent in and in my silence. Before I went back home and found what it had done to him...

Yeah...

He looks a little like that.

Except a lot worse.

And I think that lot is scaring me a little...

And the way he's still just standing there...

Staring at me...

Staring at me and waiting for–

Or to–

Well, I really don't know what.

And only do know that I can't stand it. To see him on the outside. Instead of in with me. No matter what he does when he comes...

Inside is where I want him. Need him.

And where I pray he still wants and needs to be.

So, I run to the door...

Away from him again so that I can...

Run to him...

Whichever him is waiting for me...

In the dark...

And cold...

And air...

"Jaimin!"

That are all silent. And stay.

Scaring me again. But in a different way.

And one that I have to change. Fix...

Any way that I can. Any way that's his...

Because I still am and will always want to be. "I was wrong to just leave like that. Without telling you, or giving you the chance to tell me not to. And to stand my ground...

"Like you deserved for me to do. No matter what you did.

"I was wrong, Jaimin. And I'm sorry. With all of my heart, I'm sorry."

And scared. So scared...

Because he's looking at me...

Right at...

Because the second I left his sight, he moved so that I would be back in it. And was waiting for me to be...

And making sure the place I was running to was a safe one. And a made-by-him secure.

But he's not doing any more than that. Not saying anything. Or letting me see anything different than the face in the glass that made me scream.

I didn't expect those first words he heard from me for most of this day to be enough...

But I hoped they would be something. A start, at least. A white flag instead of a red.

Or a black. Like the eyes that still watch me. Still stare at me. And into. Only.

"And I was wrong not to respond to your messages. And childish. And a complete brat. And I'm sorry for that, too. And for how often you have to put up with all of my spoiled little girl crap."

And still nothing.

And it's killing me.

Because I know that it's probably exactly the way my nothing was killing him.

"I love you, Jaimin... " Please don't keep– 

"I love you, too, Claire. Now go back in the house."

Thank you... 

What am I doing? He should hear that, too. "Thank you. Because you do. And because you're not too childish to tell me, no matter how furious with me you are."

"Go back in the house, Claire."

"Okay," I say, turning instantly around and heading back towards the door, not wanting to make things any worse by making him have to tell me a third time.

But he doesn't follow me. Doesn't move at all, other than his eyes that follow my steps.

So I stop. "What are you doing?"

"I'm doing what I've always done. I'm watching you."

"We need to talk about that... eventually. When you're not furious anymore. If I can figure out a way to make you not anymore."

"Go in the house, Claire."

Why does he keep saying that?

And only that?

And in a way that sounds like I'm the only one of us who will?

"I'm waiting for you."

"No you're not."

"Yes I am."

"No, you're not going to is what I meant."

"Okay, understood, but, again, yes I am."

"Please do as I say, Claire."

"I will, in there. Where it's warm, and–"

"I'm not coming inside, Claire."

"What? Why not?"

"Because you came here to get away from me."

"That's not true..."

"Don't lie, Claire. We have enough without that."

"I'm not lying, Jaimin. That's not why I came here. I just... I felt like I couldn't breathe... and I just wanted to be somewhere where I could... and I hoped it was here... where I always could..."

"Because you were never here with me."

"What? No... that's not why. Or even true. I've been here with you. We–"

"Dropped off some things. And were never here together for more than a few minutes."

"We're here together now," I try, because I don't like where this is going. Or already at... for him. Because I came here alone. "And I want us to be... with all of my heart I do, but if you don't, then at least come inside with me while I get my things so that we can go home. Together."

"I can't do that, Claire."

Can't? "Yes you can. Of course you can."

"Okay, yes, but I won't."

"Why not? Are you that furious with me that you don't even want to be in the same house with me?"

"No, Claire."

"Then why?"

"For the simple fact that you think I'm furious with you at all."

"I don't understand what you're saying."

"Just go inside, Claire, and I'll see you in the morning."

"You're leaving? And not letting me come with you?"

"HELL NO. To the first. Which makes the second completely unnecessary to address."

"So, you won't come inside, but you're not leaving."

"Correct."

But that doesn't make any sense...

Oh, he can't mean... "You're not staying out here all night."

"That's not for you to decide."

"I know I made a bad decision... one that made you angry... and one that hurt you...

"And I'm not asking you to forget that I did. Or to just forgive me... or let me off the hook...

"I'm just asking you to be where I can see you. See you too. And I don't think that's too much to ask you for. Or wrong. I think it's only fair."

"You screamed when you saw me."

Oh... "I screamed when I saw someone. And I stopped screaming when I saw that it was you."

"I'm truly sorry that I scared you. It certainly wasn't what I wanted to do. At all."

"I know that. And it's okay. And the least important thing right now."

"Well, I don't agree with that, but... it can wait. Go inside, Claire."

"Not without you."

"Yes, without me."

"No."

"Claire."

"I said I was sorry... and I know that's not enough, I promise you I do, but I did mean it. And do... I'm sorry, Jaimin. I was wrong. And stupid. And unfair.

"And I don't blame you for being angry. And–"

"And you're only solidifying my reasoning."

"How am I doing that?"

"Will you answer a question for me?" he asks instead of answering mine.

And answering his is easy. "Yes, anything."

"Honestly? No matter how much you don't want to?"

"I've never lied to you, Jaimin. No matter what I did today... that hasn't changed. And won't. So, please ask me what you want to know."

"After you saw that it was me... standing outside of that window watching you... were you still afraid?"

"You scared the shit out of me... anyone would have been–"

"You know that's not what I mean, Claire."

Yes, I know.

And don't want to answer how and what you did.

"I opened the door... I went to you... ran... "

"After a few minutes, yes."

"Doesn't that answer your question?"

"Yes, it does. Now go inside."

Shit.

"I'm not afraid to go in there with you, Jaimin. I'm only afraid of going in without you."

"I promise you don't have to be afraid of that."

"But I am."

"But not only of, Claire. And for that reason, I'm not coming in. And am asking you to have enough faith in me to not be afraid of my not."

"It's a clear night, Jaimin, don't make it cloudy, please."

"I'm not trying to."

"Then come with me. Have enough faith in me to do it."

"Don't make it about that, Claire. Because it's not. It's not at all."

"Then we interpret it differently. What it is. Because to me it absolutely is about that."

And to that he says nothing.

And so now here we are. At this impossible impasse. That will only be not if one of us gives in.

Or gives the other no choice but to.

By playing an unfair card. "And um... I know you didn't ask me this... but I have no doubts that you'd want to know... and am definitely selfish enough to tell you... and want my bratty way enough to...

"And have enough faith in you to let me have it... even though you're going to be mad as hell at me for it... and might let me have something else... which might scare me just a little... but not enough not to tell you... that uh...

"I haven't eaten anything since breakfast. The breakfast you made for me. Because you love me. So much...

"And far too much to ever let me be hungry. And stay if you know that I am... let alone starving... like I am now. Because I was stupid today. In every way that I could be."

Clear and Bright: Chapter Thirty Four: The Perfect Facade

"Claire, I'm beyond flattered, but I have to say I think you're crazy to ask me."

"If you don't want to make it, Genevieve, then just tell me so."

"It's not that... I'd make you anything you wanted, and be honored to do so... but your wedding dress? I'm not a dress designer, honey."

"You've designed many dresses. And they were all beautiful. And I know that because I own most–if not all–of them."

"Yes I have, and I know you do, and thank you... but not one of them was a wedding dress. And that's such a different thing... completely different... and so important... I mean, we're talking about you... and yours... "

"And that's exactly why I'm asking you. Because we are, and it is. Though what I'm asking you for really isn't so different. Not in the traditional way you might be thinking, even though different is what I want in every way."

"Every designer in Paris–hell, the world–is dying to be chosen to make your dress, Claire. Any dress you want or envision... I know that. And my being your friend shouldn't stop you from getting the most beautiful dress possible."

"Then don't tell me no."

"I'm not telling you no."

"Good. I wouldn't want to have to unleash Jaimin on you."

"I don't find that a frightful threat, you know," she says, laughter in her voice.

"You don't?" I ask, shock in mine.

"No. Not even a little bit. And it wouldn't intimidate me into reconsidering if I were unwilling to give you what you clearly truly do want, since you were willing to dangle him over me. Brat."

"It wouldn't?" I ask, ignoring–though guilty of being a–brat.

"No. It wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because I think that capable-of-being-a-ferocious-tiger of yours is underneath his stripes really just a sweet, gentle kitten. Who knows I adore you, and would only deny your wish so that you could be granted a better one. Or the best... which is without question what he would want for you."

"I want to be beautiful for him. And I want you to make me."

"You'll be beautiful no matter what. And no matter who dresses you for him. And you, as I–as well as every other person who's ever laid eyes on you–know it."

"Thank you. And for saying yes."

"Is that what I just did?"

"Yes."

"Then I guess I should go get started on something else... which, just so you know, the pressure of doing may kill me and may never get finished."

"I'm not that hard to please."

"Whatever you say, Superbrat..."

"Actually, she's not," Jaimin says, materializing out of nowhere behind us–most importantly me... and the back of my now quivering from his declaration... and his LIPS, neck–and proving my point.

And Genevieve smiles. And then gets up and grabs her bag, and my rough sketch of what I envision myself looking like on the day I surrender officially to the man who will always prove my point... and leaves with a blown-to-us kiss.

"Give Loring our love!" I call after her, and hear her chuckle. And I'm pretty sure mumble under her breath as she goes through the door "I'm going to give him something..."

Which makes me smile. Like those lips behind me do again... and then again at my ear... "Good girl."

"Because of 'our'?" I ask him, knowing it is.

"Yes."

"I thought so... but if you take me home now, I'll give you another reason to say it. One that will forever only be yours."

And then it's my bag that's picked up, and me that goes through the door. Is practically dragged... chuckling... because I'm going to give someone something, too...

Because no one said no to me today.


                                                                      ~


"Do you know how happy you make me, Claire?"

"Yes," I beam proudly up at him, "I assure you I do."

"I understand," he starts, with a You have every right to be proud smile, "due to the timing of my question, why you've interpreted it the way you have, and why you look like the Cheshire cat right now... but that's not what I meant, sweetheart."

"No?" I ask, and graze the tip of my proud tongue over the chiseled planes of his stomach. "Then what did you mean?"

He, with a moan of thanks–and regret, I think–pulls his hands from my hair and pulls me up, so that I'm gazing down at his beautiful face instead of up at it. "I meant because of what I saw when I walked into your air. And what Genevieve took with her when she left it."

As usual, I can hide nothing from him... "You saw it?"

"Not in any detailed way... just what it was. And that it was unmistakably you. Your delicate strokes, and not hers."

"You can tell my delicate strokes from someone else's?"

"Of course I can. If there were millions in front of me, I'd know yours in a second."

If he were talking about strokes of a brush, that wouldn't surprise me, but a pencil? That does. "You really do pay attention to me, don't you?"

"Yes. And far more than you pay to me, if you have to ask that question."

"Well, it was kind of a rhetorical question, so... put your interpretation in a drawer or something. For a little while, please."

"Well, I don't really think I need to do that... since I already told you that you make me happy."

"What exactly are you happy about? Can I ask? So I don't interpret anything incorrectly?"

"Yes, you can. And what I'm happy about is that you're thinking about it. And making plans for it. That day when you'll make me happier than any living, breathing being has ever been or could ever be."

"I think about it all of the time. That day..."

"You do?"

God, he's so beautiful when he's vulnerable with his happiness... "Of course I do. I'd be crazy if I wasn't, and I'm a lot of things, but not that." Well...

"My interpretation isn't in the drawer, Claire."

"I know. But, as you can see, your ring is on my finger, so..."

"So...? So what? Tell me. I want to know what so means."

"Why don't you just use it? Your interpretation... since you pointed out to me that it isn't in the drawer?"

"Because I don't want to. I want to hear what it means from you."

"Okay," I tell him, because I'll let him hear anything he wants, and do it as proudly as anything else.

But there's a certain way I want to let him. And it isn't the way we are now. So I shift myself, to straddle him instead of lie on, the way he pulled me to do. And then I pull him up beneath me, so that he's not lying at all, and I have to look up at him again instead of down at.

To give him what he wants. And what I know will make him happy. Or er... "It means that marrying you... becoming your wife... will be the greatest honor of my life. And that a minute doesn't go by in any day that I don't know that. No matter what else my mind has to focus on... or share with that knowing... and the knowing of how truly happy my greatest honor will make you.

"So, be happy, Jaimin... but please, never be surprised that that day is on my mind. Or in my strokes... whether guiding them or just keeping them company, and whether those strokes are with a pencil or a brush... and know that, whether you see me making plans or don't... that I always am. For you. And for forever with, instead of just that day I'll hand myself over to.

"But know... also... that never in my life... have I looked more forward to a spring."

Never.


                                                                       ~


It definitely isn't spring yet. And, though I wanted this, and love it, what I most look forward to during these long days of not-spring-yet winter is the ends of them. The moments when I can let them go. And let myself. With the man I want to spend all of the seasons of my life with.

Both the gallery and the restaurant have been very busy, and keeping us, and our moments together far too few. We both have everything we ever wanted, and spend our days buried in that everything, but because we are, we also can't.

I don't miss the storms we so many times exhausted each other with, but I miss the lazy days we spent recovering from them together. When I didn't have any responsibilities, and Jaimin pretended he didn't, because he made me his top. And his top priority.

I miss the days when we–well, me–had nothing to do and did exactly that. Together. When we had picnics on our nest on the floor... whether delicacies made by him or delicacies made of each other.

When we'd sit just looking at, and never wanting to see anything else. Or when we'd watch each other work...

Him in our kitchen that's really only his, while he 'worked' only for me... while I watched from my perch...

Or me in our shared space that is really only mine, because if he's in it he's watching me. Doing what I could never not. Like his need to feed me... give sustenance and strength to...

My painting is the only way I can give it to myself.

My painting that delivered me here. To this place he all but delivered to me when he gave it to me. For the parts of me I'm willing to share with the world. The only parts. And the only ones I ever would or will again. With anyone but him.

Him, who doesn't get jealous of them. Or my willingness to share them. Sometimes, anyway. I don't share the ones he does get jealous about. Or wants to keep only for himself. For his eyes and no one else's.

Sometimes when I'm working on something, or have finished it, he gets this look on his face... a selfish and possessive... a I want it look. And if I see it it's all I need to. To leave it where it is... in our shared space.

And other times he tells me. Lets me hear his wants, the way he always wants to hear mine. Tells me so there can be no wrong interpretation... "Don't take that to the gallery, Claire. Don't sell it. I want it."

And I do what he says. Let him have what he wants. Because what he wants is another piece or part of me, and there are no pieces or parts that he can't have. Or that I won't give him. Proudly.

Like the part he wants now...

My mouth...

In a different way than he had it this morning after he had it this. "Time for lunch, beautiful. Well PAST time."

"I was coming," I tell him, "I swear I was. It was just too busy for me to be able to for a while. At the time you told me to."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do. And that it's not now, so eat your lunch before it gets again."

"Okay," I say, and follow his lead to my office. With tremendous effort on my part to not let the view that doing that provides me completely take my mind off of where we are. "I'll be upstairs if you need me, Emilie!"

"I'm sure she can handle things," Jaimin tells me, opening my door and gesturing me inside. "At least long enough for you to eat. And tell me who your last patron was. And why he was, for the second time in as many days."

"How and why do you know that he was?" is what I say, instead of answering his questions.

Which he, of course, doesn't like. Or acknowledge my doing. "Answer me, Claire."

And because I don't want to argue... "He's no one. Just a, as you said, patron."

"With plans to be a daily?"

"I certainly doubt that."

"In spite of the fact that he was on two consecutive."

"He bought something yesterday. A piece that he was very taken with... "

"Be careful, Claire... "

"A piece of ART, Jaimin. Mine. This is my gallery, remember? Where I'm selling?"

"You should start eating, Claire. Because your mouth needs something to do other than get smart with me."

And yours needs something to do other than– "CLAIRE."

Be irrational. "Eat or talk? Which is it that I'm not doing quickly enough for you?"

"Do you really want to find out? By not doing BOTH right now?"

"No," I say, and open my mouth. For the bite he's holding in front of it that I'm apparently supposed to chew with said mouth open and talking. "I wouldn't at all, actually."

"Wise choice," he praises, giving me at least a second to chew. But not much more than. "That requires a follow up of sound reaching my ears."

"I love your ears."

"You love my hands, too, but not always. Which I'd hate to have to remind us both of the painful truth of."

"Can you repeat the question, please?" I ask him now, because the thought of 'not always' has made me forget it. Or them... I think he asked more than one?

"WHO. WAS. HE? And WHY was he here again today after I saw him here yesterday?"

"Yes, those were the questions you asked. Though you asked them much more quietly the first time."

"CLAIRE."

You'd think he'd be a little more patient with my mouth after what I did to him with it this morning... 

"I'M WAITING."

But you'd apparently be WRONG to think that. "Well, I'd have to check the books for the who. His name has already slipped my mind. But I can answer the why...

"As I said before, or started to say, he was very taken with the piece he bought yesterday. And, because he was, I mentioned to him before he left that I had another that I thought may equally 'take' him if he was in any way–or would be at any time in the near future–interested in a second piece."

"And?"

"And he said he that would be. Or was at that moment, to be specific."

"AND?"

"And I told him that at that moment the other piece wasn't here. But that I could bring it, should he truly wish to see it. And he said that he truly did, and asked if it would be possible to do so today. And, since it was at home, and easily acquirable–as you helped me to do and carry in here on this very morning–I said that it was. And then called him on this to inform him that it was here. An hour after which time he came to see, and subsequently purchase, it, having–as I thought he might–been equally taken with it."

"And was he TAKEN with anything else? That would lead me to being taken with the irresistible task of taking his pulse–FROM HIM–and his art-appreciating eyes from their sockets?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"I saw him smiling as he went out the door."

"And if he was–I hadn't noticed–I imagine it was the same kind of smile you might see on my face if I'd just purchased–or had purchased for me–a positively fabulous pair of shoes or boots or something. And nothing more than."

"That better be the kind it was, Claire."

"Well, it would be the only kind that would mean anything to me–had I seen it, which, again, I did not–or that I would acknowledge at all, on anyone's face but yours. If I acknowledged any at all, which is highly unlikely. Even though, at this moment, I'm struggling to remember what yours looks like... "

"Then perhaps at this moment what you should be doing is thinking of how you might put one on my face."

That shouldn't be too hard... since he seems willing. Willing enough to suggest it, anyway. So... "My lunch is culinary PERFECTION, Mr. Guillory. I am in awe of your skills."

Except he's not making it that easy. Which may simply be because he's simply THAT COCKY and already aware of my too-obvious-to-his-cocky-ears compliment.

And "I already know that," he says, confirming my suspicions. And looking bored while doing it.

And sexy... the cocky, too-and too-sexy-for-his-own-good, bastard.

"Of course you do. Just like the other thing I considered telling you... which I guess I should stop considering, since you apparently only want to hear something you don't already know... "

"What was the other thing?" he asks, telling me to stop considering nothing if it was about him.

"Oh, just that I love you... but if that isn't old, unexciting news, then–"

"Say it again," he orders. "Without the 'oh', and the 'just' that came before it, and all of that NONSENSE after."

Yes, SIR... "I love you."

Oh, there it is... a small version, anyway...

"Can you repeat that, sweetheart? Just one more time? Because I'm not sure I heard you clearly. Your voice being so soft and delicate as it is... "

And he thinks I'm adorable?  "I LOVE YOU. Is that better? Clearer?"

And why your smile is HUGE now?

"PERFECTLY," he says, holding none of how much better and clearer it is to him inside.

Which makes everything else melt away.

Until I hear the bell of the front door.

And a bell of another sort on Jaimin's phone at exactly the same time.

Telling us both that our perfect moment is over.

Well...

Almost.  "I LOVE YOU TOO, CLAIRE."



                                                                        ~



It's been a few days since the game of 20 Questions about my revisiting, re-taken, and repurchasing customer. The first game of 20 Questions, that is. Because on every day since there's been another. Or a quiet but not–AT ALL–visit from Jaimin–or, more specifically, his NOT QUIET but ever-enchanting eyes–when any MAN was in the gallery.

And, after only a few days or not, it's really starting to wear on me. The visits, and the questions whether there was the first or not.

The questions that I don't even understand how he knows to ask. And the visits to make. Because when he's across our street he should be focused on why he is; Jouissance. His realized dream long before I even decided Couleurs d'Air was mine, let alone had it realized.

But he can't be... focused on what he should be. Because, if he was, he wouldn't know when to focus on me. I mean, seriously... What does he do... ? Stand in his doorway and watch mine? For the entirety of the time I'm within? He must, because how else would he know EVERY SINGLE TIME a man enters my space?

"He was in here for almost an hour, Claire."

"Yes, appreciating what is."

"I have NO DOUBTS about that, I assure you. And DON'T need to be reminded by you."

"I was talking about my paintings, Jaimin. Paintings that I believed you appreciated more than anyone."

"I do."

"Then why are you discrediting their worth–and frankly, making me feel like they have none–by insinuating that no man would come in here and spend a single moment looking at them?"

"I wouldn't. And absolutely did NOT. And, it was 58 moments, not a single."

He counted? Oh, Jaimin... "And every one of them, however many they were, were spent looking at my art, not me. And you have to stop doing this. Running over here every time a man comes through the doors. And then drilling me for an hour after they've left."

"It hasn't been an hour, Claire, don't exaggerate. An hour is how long that man was in here. And I have to stop says who?"

"Says me, though my says is more like asks. Because I am... asking you... to please... please stop?"

"Stop what? Loving you? Thinking about you when I'm not with you? Worrying about you when I'm not, and not here to protect you? Wanting to do just that–protect you–always? Or not liking it when someone else wants to do anything with you? Or to? Like, yes, even just look at. For a moment or 58 of them. Don't ask me not to do those things, Claire, unless what you truly mean to ask me is not to be who I am. The man who loves you more than anything on this earth, and who would do anything for you, and to keep you safe. By my definition of what that is. All of which you already know, and quite well, and, I thought, loved me despite knowing."

"I do. And you know I'm not asking you to not be who you are. I love who you are... I just want you to let me be who I am, too."

"You think I'm stopping you from doing that? Or trying to? By making sure that you're safe?"

"No, but you're inhibiting it by being unwilling to accept that some of the people who appreciate who I am, and what comes from that, will be men. And that that what, unlike you, is all that they want from me. Because they think it is beautiful, not me."

"But you are beautiful, Claire. And naive if you think any living, breathing man doesn't see how much you are the moment they walk through those doors, no matter why they initially walked through them."

We're getting nowhere. Because he's not listening to me. Or is just unwilling to hear me over himself. And his need to prove that his irrational behavior isn't.

And, for today, anyway, the nowhere we are is far enough for me. Because I'm too tired, and my head hurts too much, to try to get him to go anywhere else with me.

"Is the inquisition over? May I be excused? Or do you have other questions for me?"

"Excused?"

"Yes, Jaimin, excused. Am I or not?"

"What is it you're asking to be excused from, Claire?"

"This office, mine, that you've turned into your interrogation chamber."

"Is that just your way of saying you'd like one of us to leave it? Your, as you said, office?"

"No. It's my way of saying that I have a pounding headache, and no aspirin in it, and that I would like to leave it to see if Emilie has any in her purse."

"I have aspirin, Claire. And it will take me 30 seconds, 58 at most, to run across the street and get some for you. You only had to ask."

"Would you, please?"

He doesn't answer, merely strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head before doing exactly as he said and running to get what I need. Which I might not need at all if he'd just stayed where he's running to get it from for any consecutive 58 minutes of this day.

But he's who he is...

And apparently who he is is never going to do that as long as I'm who I am.

And HIS.



                                                                       ~



"How's your head, beautiful?" he whispers softly, leaning down to where it's cradled very much the same in his lap.

"I'll live," I whisper back, but am not sure at all that that's true, because it's still killing me. And, I am sure, or beginning to be convinced, at least, that it's trying to.

"I'm sorry if it hurts because of me. I really am, sweetheart."

"It doesn't," I tell him, even though it's at least in part a lie to. "But every time I have a pain in my ass, it will undoubtedly have your name all over it."

He shows incredible restraint–and concern for my throbbing head–by not responding to that, but not enough not to rub his hand slowly and deliberately over my aforementioned ass...

Which actually... "That feels good. And your other hand should do the same a little higher up. Or a lot higher up, I suppose... "

"You mean here?" he asks, stroking his fingers tenderly across my forehead and into my always-aching-for-his-touch hair.

"Exactly there," I think I say, though I'm not sure it wasn't just a moan of pure pain-replaced bliss.

That, regardless of what it was, he heard clearly. And would let his hand fall off before he'd stop letting himself hear it. Or me feel...

Did I say I had a headache? I don't think I can even remember what a headache is...

Because, once again, there is only me...

And him.

Perfect... PERFECT... him. "Mmmmmm... "





                                                                         ~



The last couple of weeks have truly been near perfect. No headaches. No storms. No interrogations or 20 Questions games...

There have been visits from my perfectly imperfect man... I'd be sad if there weren't. And close, watchful eyes... but they've been sweet. And adoring. And quiet, and respectful. And very, very well-behaved.

If ever Jaimin was without his sometimes-earned horns, it is now. And was everyday in the weeks leading up to. He might even be worthy and deserving of a halo. The thought of which makes me smile. And wonder if we have marshmallows in the cupboard...

I think I'll check when we get home tonight. But right now, I'm paying a surprise visit to my gorgeous dark angel. Because I'm not busy at the moment, and because I miss him. Because he only paid me one today. So far. Which was, coincidentally, I'm sure, at the same time that I happened to have my only gentleman patron of this so far day.

"Hello, Claire! How are you on this lovely day? Besides lovely, of course?"

"I'm good, Michel, thank you. And how are you? Besides invaluable, of course?"

"From your mouth to HIS ears," he laughs, and gives me a HIS-ish wink. Which makes me laugh...

Because it's not at all the same...

Which is a good thing. For all parties. "So, where is HE? Is he terribly busy?"

"For you, never. And I believe he is at this moment never too busy for you in his office."

"Is it okay if I just head there?"

"Unless you would prefer an escort?" he asks, offering his arm.

"Thank you, but no, that's not necessary."

I smile at his gentlemanly bow, and walk away and to Jaimin's office with that smile still on my face. But when I get there, I don't think he is, like Michel thought, because my soft knock goes unanswered, making that smile fall a little. Perhaps my surprise won't be one after all. But before I head back having not delivered it, I knock a second time, a little harder and louder than the first. He still doesn't answer it, the space behind his door soundless, except for a faint ping, similar to that of a chat or message prompt if a person were online. Something Jaimin rarely is, if ever. Not to mention that he's not the chat type. At all.

And not the type to ignore someone knocking on his office door, even if I'm behind it with him, because no one would bother him when he's in there unless it was important. His employees aren't stupid. Or crazy, that I know of...

Especially Michel, who must not know that he stepped out, or he wouldn't have directed me here as the place where I would find him. Him, who I–not wearing any bit of a smile now–didn't.

But just as I turn to walk away because I didn't, I hear that sound again from behind his door. That faint ping. That this time I don't shrug off. Because I want to know what it is. And want to know bad enough that I turn around and turn the door handle.

It turns in my hand, the door isn't locked, which tells me his exit from his office must have been a swift and unplanned one. And that he'll likely be back to it just as quickly. So I go inside, where I'll wait for him seated in his chair behind his desk. His desk on which his computer sits. Not making any noise now...

No ping or prompt of any kind...

But doing something.

Showing my eyes something that they truly can't believe they see.

Clear and Bright: Chapter Thirty Three: Grand

"What's wrong, Claire?"

"Nothing."

"Then why are you standing out here in the cold staring up at–What is it you're looking at exactly?"

"I'm looking at my magnificent birthday present. And wishing I hadn't have ruined it."

"You filled it with your visions. And parts of your soul. Pieces of you... How on earth could you have ruined it?"

"I just did. And it's too late now to... just nevermind." I shake my head, angry with myself, and open the door to go back inside. "Come on, Emilie, what's done is done. And since it can't be un, we have other things to do."

She gives me a sad nod and follows, but she isn't the only one, of course. "What can't be undone?"


"Please, Jaimin, I don't want to talk about it." Or admit to you that I've already failed, before the doors are even open.

"Emilie?" he asks, surprising me. And her. "What doesn't she want to talk about?"

"Uh... I don't... "

"Jaimin, don't–"

"You don't want to talk about it, Claire, so I won't make you. EMILIE."

"Scare her."

"She's not scared. And is going to answer me."

Wrong! But right, too, apparently... "She just wanted to change something... and was told she couldn't."

"Told she couldn't by whom?"

He's never going to let it go now... since the whom wasn't him.

And Emilie knows that. And, scared or not, is more than willing to tell him now. Something she told me I should do, because she thought he might be able to get me what I was denied. Because telling him no... "The sign guy. She wanted to change it. Not the design, but the letters. The name... because she changed her mind about that, and wants to name it something else... which I think she should absolutely be able to do, since it's her gallery...

"Anyway, he told her she couldn't."

"You changed your mind about the name?" he asks me, gripping my chin and tilting my face up.

"Yes, but–"

"But nothing." His hand drops from my face and in the blink of an eye is putting his phone to his ear.

And I want to tell him he's wasting his time. That the guy isn't going to give in. Give him what he wants... which is to give me everything I want...

But I don't say another word. Because I do want it... everything, and everything perfect... perfectly my way...

And if anyone can give that to me... "Tell him what you want again, Claire."

It's him.

"Hello. So, like I said before..."



                                                                           ~



"Don't do it, Claire."

His words aren't playful. Nor is the just-awoken tone of his voice.

And come just as I'm about to click the second cuff closed around his wrist.

Which I hesitate to do, for just a moment. So that I can look at him... which I was doing closely until just a few seconds ago. The few seconds ago that were just before he woke up.

Or let me know he had...

"You mean this?" I ask, with that click he told me not to let him hear.

The one that put him at my mercy.

And took away his.

And turns his eyes blacker than I've ever seen them. I'm so going to pay for this...

Seriously... he's not going to show me ANY.

But I knew that before I did what I've done.

I knew it when I climbed from our bed while he slept peacefully and trustingly to get the fur-covered restraints from where I hid them. The them that he thought I'd thrown away.

And knew it when I climbed back into it with them, and my plan, in hand.

I knew...

And did it anyway.

Because he still hasn't let me do something. Have something.

And after the all of me he had before he fell so peacefully and trustingly–and blissfully selflessly, depending on how whose interpretation you consider–asleep, I was mad. Blissful, yes, but mad, too.

Because I'm tired of being told no. And 'not yet', or 'not today', or tonight, or...

I'm tired of it. And I don't like it. Being denied and told I can't have something.

Something I only want to do for him. Because I love him and I want him in every possible way. And, like the way he loves and wants me, in every irrational.

Clearly... since I've done this. Irrational is going to hurt...

Like HELL...

But I did know that already. And we're still here. In our bed that he's cuffed to. And that I'm now free to do as I please in.

Free to do to him, who looks anything but pleased. "CLAIRE."

"Yes?"

"TAKE THEM OFF."

"With pleasure," I tell him with a beaming smile, and move my hands down to the waist of his pajama pants.

Is there something worse than Hell? Because I think there might be... and that I might very soon know its existence...

"I'm not playing with you, Claire."

Well, that was surprisingly... calm. "I know. I'm playing with you. Or, I will be, anyway... as soon as I get these off, like you ordered me to."

I start to inch them over his hips–which are not cooperative in any way–when something hits me. Like, seriously, whacks me upside the head... CALM BEFORE THE STORM, YOU IDIOT!

I know! 

I just don't care.

"Don't damage us, Claire."

What? Damage us? That's a bit much, isn't it? When I just want to...

"Or my belief that you love me enough not to. The belief you once pleaded with me to have."

"I love you more than anything. And I'm just trying to show you that, since none of that pleading has reached your ears."

"It all reached my ears, Claire."

"But I want it to reach something else. So much that I'm willing to endure what I know you'll reach. After it does."

"As you see fit, then."

Yes! Finally!

You're stupid. And I'm not sticking around for this... 

Good, three's a crowd.

Yes, and ONE isn't. And isn't what you want to be anymore. Too bad you've forgotten that.

Oh, please, he'd never...

Leave me.

Maybe not... but WHO will stay? Will it even be anyone you recognize? Or love? Enough to be brave and stupid and selfish, but not enough not to be? 

Or are you not as stupid as I think, since 'he's' still 'restrained'?

I mentally flip her off. But then look at my hands still gripping his waistband, instead of something else. The waistband that's still at his hips and no lower. And still restraining–sort of–what I did this for.

This thing that, even though for me, was for him.

Him, who doesn't want it. This way, at least.

Something that no amount of calm doesn't still scream at me.

And no amount of black. That his eyes still are. But not only...

"I just wanted to make you as happy as you make me," I tell him, my hands releasing their grip on their plan. And mine.

"Then wait for me to ask you to. Or tell you. Like I did."

"I have been."

"Until you woke up and lost your mind?"

"That may not be an irrational interpretation..."

"Something shouldn't be."

"I agree. Though I think that more than one something shouldn't be."

"That's because your lost mind came back."

"Yeah, I found it again..."

"Good. Now uncuff me."

"I'd have to lose it again to do that now... and since you think it's good that I found it..."

"UNCUFF ME CLAIRE."

"How much I wanted to do that other thing... is unbelievably actually less than how much I don't want to do that."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that... but unlike that other thing... you're going to."

"You know, I can't marry you if I'm dead. And I believe with all of my heart that you want me to do that more than anything..."

"I DO."

"So, you see my dilemma with doing as you ask now?"

"I DIDN'T ASK YOU ANYTHING."

"Can I ask you something?"

"WHAT, Claire?"

"Can I at least have a last meal?"

"Is it ME?"

"Actually, I was thinking of Brouillade de Truffles, but now that you–"

"Over everything else?"

"Yes. Until you–"

"Stop, Claire. Why?"

How many ways out does he have to give you? Answer him! His MOUTH! And let the other part of him go!

Maybe that's not the worst idea ever... "Because I love them. Yours. And because the mere thought of them makes me smile. Because of you. Because they were the first things you ever spoiled me with, even though you made me fight for them. And your spoiling was cocky and rude instead of sweet and loving. Every Monday morning... which it coincidentally is again today... even though the sun isn't up on it yet... and may not come out at all... or be something I'll ever see again..."

I let my words trail off... and give him my best sad little bird face... hoping to soften him... and calm that storm that may be the last thing I ever see... and feel...

"Uncuff me, Claire."

And I'm not sure that it worked... but I have to let him go eventually, so... "Okay," I whisper softly, and take the key out from under my pillow. And then whisper something else... "I love you," and turn it with trembling fingers and set him free.

And then close my eyes... squeeze them shut... and hold my breath... as much of it as I could fit in my puffed out cheeks... and wait.

For something that doesn't come.

Because he moves... shifts... quickly... but it's to put himself in front of me, instead of behind. And then his hands reach up instead of down... to squeeze my cheeks between his thumb and fingers... forcing me to let go of my air... and my fear... that I open an eye–just one–to see I didn't need to have.

"Open the other one, you crazy, brave little brat."

"Am I being pardoned?" I ask him, with my mouth that he loves... and with both eyes wide.

"Yes," he answers, drowning me with the love in his. "But not rewarded, before you get greedy and ask for more."

"Not rewarded yet? Or today? Or tonight? You just mean that, right?"

"Yes," he laughs, and shakes his head. "I just mean that."

"And I'll live long enough to say I do?"

"Yes, Claire... you will... because I'm not that merciful."

"I didn't want you to be."

He laughs again, and then, in an instant, I find myself flat on my back. And at the mercy of those beautiful black eyes... and... "REMEMBER THAT."

That part of him I wanted him to let me have.

Holy. FUCK.




                                                                           ~



I slowly lick my fingers. Suck each one of them. And then my thumb...

Because I know I have a captive audience.

One who sits beside me in the dark theater. Paying absolutely no attention to the movie he brought me to see.

Because all of his attention is on me.

And the popcorn with extra butter and salt in my lap.

The popcorn I didn't have to share. Well... other than the one piece he took from it. Because he could...

Because he and only he was offered the privilege.

And with a cocky smile, took it. And that piece, even though he has a bucket of his own. Because he wanted me to...

"One of these days your teasing is going to get you into more trouble than you can handle," he whispers into my ear.

Today, if I'm lucky... "What teasing?" I whisper back. "I'm sitting in a movie eating popcorn. Popcorn you bought for me."

"Was the hundred napkins I gave you not enough, sweetheart? I could run out and get you more?"

"They might have been... if they weren't in my purse."

"Why are they in your purse?"

"I'm saving them... for you... and the next time you have a cocky smirk on your beautiful face. And something else. Or, more specifically, me."

"You have a very naughty mouth, Miss Beaulieu."

"So do you, Mr. Guillory. And I like it."

"LIAR."

"Oops. You're right, I am. Because I LOVE it. Which you do, of course, know. And should never punish me for, though feel welcome to always torture me with."

"Like you are me? With yours? And have been doing since the moment we sat down?"

"No... "

"No?"

"No, definitely not. It's far too indirect a way. And not nearly... 'in your face' enough."

"Or yours?"

"DEFINITELY not in mine."

I laugh at the SHHHshing a handful of rows in front of us and take a sip of my Coke, before resting my head on his arm and turning my attention back to the movie.

That, even though I look at, I don't think I'll see any more of...

Because I saw something else before I did.

In those eyes that own me...

I saw surrender.

And I think... just maybe... that when we get home...

He's going to let my mouth torture him. And OWN him...

Like his does me.

When his eyes that do are elsewhere.

Where they're not now.

Finally.



                                                                                      ~



That surrender I saw in the dark theater?

Is still there when we get home.

Here with me.

Against our door that he pushed me against as soon as we were locked securely on the inside of it.

And in his kiss that pins me to it.

Before something else comes along to help it.

Or up, if we're being specific about the details.

And I want it... that something that's up... want him to give it to me...

But unlike the countless other times I did... I won't ask him for it.

He's going to have to give it to me on his own. Ask me or tell me to take it.

Which I think he's going to do.

Because he spins us so that it's now his back against our door. And then wrestles out of his leather jacket and drops it to the floor in front of him. And in front of me. And then does the same with mine... my badass leather bomber jacket... that now lies in a badass heap on the top of his. Between us.

Like something else is, though not lying at all. Something as badass as badass gets.

And that he unbuckles his belt to let out. Unbuttons and unzips his jeans to set free. And pushes his silk boxers down and over...

While I watch him...

Do it all...

Cockily...

In every way that he is. Now. That Mr. Sweet and Sensitive has surrendered. To Mr. NOT.

Who I will surrender to. Gladly.

"Is this what you wanted me to give you so bad that you were willing to risk my pretty little ass to take it without my permission?"

I tear my eyes away from it, hard and commanding in his hand, to look at his face. That's perfection takes the air from my lungs no matter how many times I've seen it...

And nod. Playfully and not.

And even if he knows it was both, he only addresses the first. The playful. "What was that? Did you say something, beautiful? Because I don't think I heard you."

I nod again... and then look down again... and whimper... before looking back up... nodding... vigorously... one more time.

And the corners of his mouth turn up just a little... for just a few seconds... because he can't stop them. But then cocky is back. In charge and in control. "You're going to open that pretty mouth, Claire... and give me what I want. EVERYTHING I want."

I smile, and then purse my lips together. Tightly. Because he made me wait forever for this... and he's going to have to wait at least a few seconds.

"And you're going to do it NOW," he orders, as his hand comes up to wrap around my neck beneath my hair, his thumb at the bottom of my chin, forcing it down, and my mouth slightly open.

It's been a few seconds, right? "If that's what you want."

"You know what I want, Claire."

"I couldn't not, I assure you."

"Then give it to me like a good girl."

"YES. It's what I wanted. So bad that I was willing to–and did–risk your pretty little ass to take it without your permission. Before I didn't."

"Very good, sweetheart."

"No, I think it was very bad."

"I mean now."

"Aah. Well, thank you. I can be sometimes."

"I know," he says, his fingers moving into my hair and his thumb sweeping slowly across my slightly parted lips. "And do you still want it?"

"Very much," I tell him without hesitation, and with very little air in my lungs again.

Not just because I know he's going to finally give it to me...

But also because his fingers in my hair are taking. God, that feels like heaven...

"Then take it," he says, twisting my hair into his fist and pulling. And me downward. "Permission GRANTED."

I consider thanking him again...

But his eyes that are locked on mine as I let him guide me to my knees on the soft leather ground he provided me tell me I don't have to. Or say anything at all. But what mine tell him... as I sweep my tongue over the tip of my granted wish... and get my first taste of his surrender...

That, like the way I like my popcorn, is salty...

And makes me want another.

And him want me to have...

"Jesus, Claire..."

And take...

Not share...

Greedily...

Like the spoiled brat I am...

That I think I surpass now...

Because, even though there's more than I could ever have imagined...

He is...

I can't get enough.

Of him. And his permission.

That I accept...

Take...

ALL of...

With eyes–and mouth–WIDE open...

And full...

Of and with...

His total...

And complete...

SURRENDER.

Good girl, Claire... I tell myself, smiling up at him. Very. Good. Girl.

Because he couldn't.

Couldn't let me hear it.

Because at this moment...

As his hands–both–tremble in my hair...

And his eyes gaze down at me in wonder...

He can't say anything at all.


                                 
                                                                             ~



Things have been a little different since Jaimin's surrender.

He hasn't told me no to a single thing I've asked for. Including him. And for him to again. And again. And...

Yeah, he's no longer the only one enthralled.

Nor the only one spoiled. I figure I have a lot to make up for. Not that I could ever even that score...

Seriously... in a lifetime I couldn't...

But he doesn't deny my wanting to.

Or trying to.

Doesn't even try to.

Because he can't.

Because me and my smart, naughty little mouth took his power away. And a whole lot of something else...

Like what I just took from him.

While he was trying to shave.

Or getting ready to anyway...

Before he stopped.

"Just wash it off," I tell him, trailing my fingertip through the cream still slathered and drying on his face. "I like you scruffy sometimes. And besides, I'm hungry, and don't want to have to wait for you to feed me."

"Be careful, Claire... I might interpret that as an insult."

"Well, my tenderized throat implores you not to. And to get your EPIC, like the rest of you, ass into the–your–kitchen to make me breakfast. The kind I can't make for myself."

"You have a VERY naughty mouth."

"And you love it, so give it what it wants."

"I do," he says, turning on the faucet and splashing the cream off of his face, after splashing me... "And love it more every day."

"So...?"

"So, I'll thank it. And make you anything you want. And anything it does."

"You know what I love?" I ask him, wrapping my arms around him as he's trying to dry his face.

"I think I do," he smirks at me, "But tell me."

"I love our new, WIDE OPEN, lines of communication."

"I'm glad you do, Claire, because I love it, too."

"Don't you mean them?" I ask with a pout.

Which he kisses, as he lifts me up, wrapping me around him, and pushing mine against him as he carries me to the kitchen.

Where he sets me on my spot on the counter with a wink. "The other one isn't new, sweetheart. I opened that one a long time ago." And with a teasing sweep of his fingers between my legs.

That makes me whimper.

And then pout again.

Because that's all I got...

Before he walked away...

And to the refrigerator...

To get what he needs to give me what I asked for.

Damn him.




                                                                              ~




Just like so many times since the first, I feel him before I see him. Or hear him. "You look exquisite."

"Thanks to you, caterer boy," I muse, and brush a touch of rich color I'm not sure he'll find as exquisite over my lips. Which have never been more his...

"And so does your mouth, though it doesn't sound."

Or maybe he does... "Thank you again." Because he truly does love my mouth, couldn't possibly love it more... "And how does it sound? My mouth?"

"SMART."

"Well, I did do well in school..."

"Mm-hmm."

I smile sweetly at his exquisitely amused and not so gaze and then turn my own back to the mirror in front of me one last time.

If ever I was putting myself under a storm cloud it was tonight. The night I put everything out there. Myself, and my dreams, and his for me...

The ones that aren't about him. And the ones that he has no doubts about.

Because he has no doubts about me.

Or what I'm capable of.

Not that I do... or don't feel confident about what I'm putting out there for all the world to see... but...

"What if no one comes?"

"Excuse me?"

"What if my Grand Opening is a GRAND FLOP? And grandly quiet? Silent, even? What if  no one comes?"

"You know how brilliant you are, Claire. Where in the hell is this coming from?"

"I don't know... I just am trying to prepare myself, I guess. That it might not be a success. That–"

"Well, stop. Because you're wasting your time."

"Being one of many is very different than being the only, Jaimin. My decision to present only my own work at tonight's opening was a risky one. And will maybe be seen–if it's seen at all–as a cocky one."

"Your decision?" he asks, because he knows that he's responsible for my making it.

"In the end, yes. With your unrelenting encouragement."

"I didn't twist your arm."

"No, you didn't."

"You let me encourage you."

"Yes I did. But what if that was the wrong decision?"

"Confidence is never wrong, Claire."

"But cocky can be."

"Yes... but isn't you. We wouldn't be having this conversation if it was."

"What if no one comes?" I can't stop asking the question. To him or myself...

And just like I can't, he can't hear it. Or simply won't... "I'm going to spend this night making sure you can breathe. And making sure no one is watching you do it too closely. Or at all, if we're being honest. So, if any part of you is telling you that you should be worried about how this night will go... "

"Don't misinterpret it?"

"Yes. DON'T."

"Do something for me?" I ask him now, misinterpreting nothing about his words. And their stormy warning.

"Anything."

"Know that if it wasn't for you, I couldn't do this at all."

"I don't agree with that."

"I know... but can you try not to forget that it's how I feel? And not do anything that would take you from my side? Or my sight?"

"I would never do anything to ruin this night for you, Claire."

"Not intentionally, no... but if people do come... and look at everything I chose to put out there... because there's nothing else to look at... "

"Then I'll let Loring handle it. And them. With my unrelenting encouragement. And grip... on you."

"That's all I want. For you not to let go. Because I definitely wouldn't be able to breathe if you did. And weren't still encouraging me–unrelentingly or not–when whatever this night is for me is over."

"Well, now you're wasting your time and your precious-to-me breath..." he says, spinning me gently around and wrapping his arms around me... Confidently. And gripping his chocolate silk adorned prize... Cockily...

And takes some of that rich color from my lips with his...

And then my precious-to-him breath from my lungs. "Because this night is all about you. And will stay that way. End...

"And someone... WILL come. Which will never again happen without me in your sight. If you can keep your eyes open. Caterer girl."

Talk about a SMART mouth...



                                                                           ~



My mouth is wide open again. As are my eyes...

Because the crowd assembled in formal and formidable glory in front of my still-closed doors is...

Taking my air. "Jaimin..."

"I'm right here," he says, pulling me back against his chest and kissing the top of my head. "And it's where I'll stay."

Emilie is already inside, has been for hours...

And so is Loring. And Genevieve. And the Bouchards. And Aricin and Caressa and Alaina...

But I was too nervous to wait there and ran back across the street to Jouissance and my pillar of strength.

So that he could keep me breathing, though the sight of him–let's be honest, at all–working to make his part in this night for me perfect took just as much of it away.

And even more when he was finished and changed into his suit... of all black...

TALK ABOUT GRAND...

A grand, grand masterpiece...

That had my mouth and eyes as wide open as they've ever been...

And my lungs as empty...

Before he took even more of my air–and that color from my lips–with another kiss...

And words of unrelenting encouragement as he led me through the restaurant to where we stand now looking out the front doors...

His.

At mine...

That aren't visible behind the EVERYONE that came to see them open...

And me...

Open my very own gallery...

With the name that's exactly what I wanted...

And looks exactly the way...

Vibrant...

Alive...

And beautiful...

Couleurs d'Air...

Even though "I can't–"

"Yes, you can."

"No... Jaimin... I... c-c-c..."

"Hey... " He spins me around and away from everything and everyone, and pulls me into a dark quiet corner, tucking me in, and cradling my face in his hands. "Just look at me, Claire. Tune everything else out and look at me."

"I... c-c–"

"Shhh... sweetheart, it's okay. Breathe for me, please. It's just us... "

I shake my head frantically, because it's not. And because I just can't catch my breath.

"Claire... "

Seeing all of those people outside... waiting in the cold... for me... expecting something of me... too much, maybe...

"Damn it, sweetheart, you have got to breathe... please, Claire... "

Is more than I was ready for. Or could ever have prepared for.

It is too much. And I was too confident. To think I could do this...

"M-m-make... it... g-go... aw-way... J-Jaimin... p-p-please... m-make... th-th-them... g-go... "

"You don't want that, sweetheart. You're just overwhelmed. And that's okay. We'll wait until you're not. And so will they, because they know you're worth it. It's why they're all out there. Because they know."

"It's t-too... m-much... "

"No, Claire... not for you, it's not. For you, nothing is enough."

God, he loves me so much...

And, knowing that... with everything I am... I look at him.

Focus on him.

Tall and strong in front of me...

Shielding me from everything beyond him...

Everything but him...

And my panic starts to calm. And my lungs start to fill again. Slowly...

And the desperate grip I didn't realize I had on him loosens. Just a little...

Just enough... to see the mess I made. That I try to smooth, like my breathing. "I wrinkled your sleeves."

"I don't care."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't ever be sorry for holding on to me, Claire. Or for taking strength from me."

"I'm not sorry for either of those things. I'm just sorry I wrinkled your sleeves."

"Well, I'm not. Just like I've never been sorry for wrinkling anything of yours."

"I don't recall you wrinkling any of my slee–oh... you mean my pants... or skirts... or whatever may have been covering my–"

"Yes. Any of those."

"Yeah, I definitely don't recall you ever apologizing for it. Or thinking you should."

"I knew you didn't. Just like I know now that you can do this. Let people admire and appreciate you... though not wrinkle."

I take a few breaths in and out... in his hands and under his loving and encouraging stare...

And let that love and encouragement, and his faith in me, give me a different kind of strength. "I am sturdy... and brave... "

"Yes you are."

"And you'll be right there if I falter... "

"Yes I will."

"Okay. I can do it."

"That's my girl," he says, and gives me a proud, beautiful smile.

But I need to face it when I do... "But I really want you to take me through the back."

"My LYING girl."

"What? Lying about–Oh! You... back door, Jaimin! Of my building. Evil."

I back further into the corner he put me in, with my back–and something else–against the wall and shake my head at him.

And he laughs... evilly... and then steps closer to me... so close that it should suffocate me...

But he could never. "See? It's always better if I can hear you, Claire."

"Yeah... I see. And that it's always BEST when I can. See you."

"You'll never not, I promise."

"Then let's go, because I've never been a girl that's been late."

"Are you sure that's not a lie, sweetheart?"

I'm about to say yes... that I'm sure it isn't...

But then I remember. As if I could ever forget that day...

When I started to breathe.

"No... I'm sure it is, actually. But, just like that day I was... late... and didn't have the sense... or the sturdy... to be afraid of you... "

"You're not now, either? Even for being caught in a lie?"

"No. Because I didn't mean to lie. I just wasn't thinking clearly... until I heard you."

"I love you, Claire."

Truth is so beautiful... "I love you too."



                                                                            ~



"We're so proud of you."

Mr. Bouchard's beaming smile is one I don't think I'll ever forget. "Thank you. That means a lot to me."

"Is it okay that that pride makes me feel like a father right now?"

"It's more than okay."

"It really is extraordinary, Claire... " He gestures around us with wide, awe-filled eyes. "Your vision. The way you see things... and bring them to life."

I don't think he's just talking about my paintings. "I had help. Seeing... " And as I say the words, my eyes find Jaimin.

Who hasn't been exactly by my side for every moment of this night, but whose eyes have never left me. Even when I couldn't see him I could feel him. Like now... when I did, and knew exactly where to look for him.

Him... who takes my breath away. And gives it back to me so much stronger...

Mr. Bouchard follows my gaze, and takes in the one trained unwavering on me, and smiles. "There's definitely an air of him in here. No pun intended."

"Of course there is," I tell him, "He's a part of me. A part of everything... a good part. And a strong... too strong to deny."

"I'm glad he's here, Claire."

"Me too... "



                                                                             ~



"How am I doing?"

His warm breath in my hair and at my ear sends a contradictory shiver up my spine. "You're doing extraordinarily well, my love. So much so, in fact, that I think your good behavior should be rewarded."

"A gold star, perhaps?"

"That's not even close to what I was thinking, Mr. Guillory."

"No? Well, it will be, Miss Beaulieu... because after I do what I'm going to do to you when I get you home... I think you'll want to give me a million gold stars. At least."

I have no doubts about that... "I want to give you more than that for just thinking about doing something to me that would earn you them."

"Then you'd have to give me more than that many every day... because there's not a single that goes by that I'm not thinking about it. Doing... that thing... I love to do to you."

"And for you?"

"CLEARLY."

"It always is... clear... because I can always hear you."

"I don't doubt that you can... even over your own–"

"I tune those out. I like the sound of yours better. And the feel of them. Against my... "

"Be careful, sweetheart."

"YOUR... "

"Well, that's much better, but still–"

"Don't say it?"

"It's my request, yes. Until I get you home, anyway. Then you can say whatever you want to me."

"Okay. As you see fit."

"Oh, just you wait... "



                                                                             ~



"Don't leave me."

"I've tried very hard to give you your space tonight, Claire. While staying close like you asked me to."

"I know you have. But I don't want you to anymore."

"You don't?"

"No. I want you right here... where I can wrinkle your sleeves."

"Well, I don't have to try to do that. Or let you."

I smile at that, and at him, and grab one of his said sleeves, pulling it against me as I pull him. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me for that, beautiful."

"I think I do... but it wasn't only for that. Thank you for all of this... "

"All of this was you, Claire, not me."

"That's not true... "

"Yes it is. You and your gifted hands did this. Don't give me credit for any of it. It's all yours. And all of the smashing success that came of it in mere minutes... hell, seconds... YOURS."

"It's been hours."

"Only because no one wants to leave. Say goodnight to you, or your brilliance."

"But it was you who gave me a place to put it. And the strength to face it. And–"

"I just put a roof over it, Claire. And over your beautiful head. To protect you from storms... since you like to stand under them. Taunting them... sometimes."

"A beautiful roof that I love," I tell him, looking up, and listening to the rain that falls on it now, "That is keeping me dry... but doesn't need to protect me from what's falling from the sky. On this night, anyway."

"I wondered if you heard it. Or had time to see it, though I didn't see you. And I was watching."

"I know. You didn't take your eyes off of me once."

"I couldn't."

I know, my love... and I'll always be grateful for that... "But yes, I heard it. And knew what it was. A happy rain... and a proud one, that I didn't need to see to know it was."

"If I could rain down on you to show you how proud I am of you, Claire, and how happy, you'd drown."

"I drown every day in that waterless rain. And nearly drown you with mine on many."

"The things that come out of your mouth... "

"Are just as badass as what goes–"

He covers said mouth and shakes his head at me. "And I'm going to be merciful and save your bad little ass from the storm it's trying to play in. Now  you can say thank you."

He gives me a sexy warning glare and pulls his hand away–but not too far–giving me a chance to let him hear me.

And I won't do or say anything to damage that trust, even though it isn't absolute... because I'm me... and my mouth is... well... "Thank you."

"So very PROUD... "



                                                                            ~



"If you catch a cold, I'm going to–"

"Take care of me until I lose it."

"That's not what I was going to say, Claire."

"I know. And we can go in now."

He doesn't say another word as he sweeps me out of the cold rain and into our apartment. Where a warm fire is already blazing. "How did you do that?"

"Michel is a very valued employee. And willing to do anything for you, which..."

"Is sweet. And mostly because he believes I make you a more tolerable boss."

"That better be why." He scowls and then rushes away from me and down the hall.

But before I can even get my wet-from-the-rain coat off, he's back. Carefully draping a towel over my also wet head and helping me with it.

"Thank you," I say again, and let him pull me to stand in front of the fire. Which I only do long enough for him to pull the chair from beside it to in front of it and gesture me into it. After which he crouches down and pulls my gift-from-him, like the dress I wore tonight, shoes from my feet.

Before smirking and slipping them back on. Oh, really, Mr. Guillory?

"Thank you again," I tell him, smiling at his unrelenting adoration. And what else I see...

"You're going to lose your voice saying those words to me before this night is over, sweetheart."

"Worth it," I tell him, and close my eyes as he moves behind me to dry my hair with the towel. Because the way he's doing that... "Mmmm... I should stand in the cold rain more often."

"No, YOU SHOULDN'T," he warns. "I should just never again forget how sensitive your beautiful head is. And how much you relish attention to it."

"As you see fit," I whisper, indeed relishing in the attention it's getting now.

That I know won't last forever.

Because he made it very clear what part of me he wanted to focus his on when he got me back here...

To this place that was all about me before I ever even entered it...

And its warmth...

And his...

That his mouth spreads over the skin of my neck and shoulders as his towel-draped fingers work their way down my hair.

That they, after not much longer, drop completely from. After which he does...

And around the chair and to his knees in front of me...

And pushes my dress up and over mine.

And higher...

As he pulls me lower...

Further to the edge of the chair...

Rips the remaining chocolate–that he also gave me–to tatters and then opens me wide...

My mouth and my eyes and my...

"Ohhhh..."

Grand and limitless gold starred sky.