Perfectly Adequate

I miss you.

I love you.

I’m living with the alternative for Roman … and for you.

“How are you?” I whisper.

She doesn’t have to say it this time. I hear her gulp. “Fine,” she squeaks like it barely makes it past her throat.

Fine.

I don’t like fine Dorothy. Fine Dorothy breaks my heart because I know her “okay” is spectacular, but fine feels along the lines of barely breathing. Does she know how incredibly fucking fine I am right now too?

The doors open.

She bolts out.

And I would let her go. I really would, but she lifts her hand and wipes her face as her feet move as fast as they can away from me.

I take one more sip of my coffee, toss it in the trash, and follow Dorothy, doubling her pace to catch up to her.

“Don’t! What are you doing?” She tries to move past me when I get ahead of her and turn to stop her. I want to grab her. Shake some sense … shake some more emotion out of her. But I don’t physically touch her.

“A word.”

She shakes her head.

“I’m not asking.”

She bites her upper lip, but it doesn’t keep her bottom lip from quivering or prevent the redness building in her eyes. I jerk my head toward the on-call room, and she leads the way, again wiping her eyes with her back to me.

A groggy resident lifts his head when I open the door to the otherwise vacant room.

“Out,” I snap, holding the door open.

“But I just—”

“Out!” I blow out an exasperated breath, not feeling patient enough to explain my demand with more than one word, and definitely not patient enough to listen to his reasons for not getting out right this minute.

Dorothy turns like she’s decided to flee as the resident slips on his shoes and slides past us with a grumble. But I step in her way again, taking several steps to force her backward as I close and lock the door.

She opens her mouth to protest again, I grab her face, lowering mine to her eye level.

More tears fill her eyes.

“I need you to be okay. I need it like oxygen.”

“Eli …” she whispers, making a solid effort to keep those tears from leaking down her face.

“Tell me you’re okay, Dorothy. Tell me you’re okay, and I’ll let you walk out of here right now.”

“I’m fine.”

“Not the same.” I grimace, feeling her pain as if it were my own … because it is my own.

“I’m fine.” She blinks, losing the battle with her emotions.

“Yeah…” I whisper, resting my forehead on hers for a few seconds before ghosting my lips along her tearstained cheek “…I’m fine too.”

My pulse pounds so hard it’s deafening. When our mouths lock, reality ceases to exist. I’m just so tired of doing the right thing when it feels so wrong.

When she unties my scrub pants, I let go.

I let go of reason.

I let go of worry.

I let go of everything that’s not in this room … in this moment.

We tear apart long enough to discard our tops. Then our mouths collide again while my hands work the hook to her bra. Dorothy doesn’t even try to speak. This is how I know she’s fine. Because “okay” Dorothy would have lots to say. She would invite her conscience to come between us. Okay Dorothy would warn me that she’s not wearing the right bra or underwear to do this.

I miss okay Dorothy. But the part of my soul that’s been starving without her feels some gratitude for her pain because she’s giving me this. She’s feeding my soul, bringing me back to life.

Her hands slide into my hair, deepening our kiss, moaning into my mouth, pushing me back toward a single bed. We kick off our shoes. My hands cup her breasts.

“Eli …” She tips her head back, eyes closed, as I add her bra to the pile of clothes at our feet.

I slide her scrub bottoms and panties off in one smooth motion as my mouth covers one of her breasts. I can’t get enough of her. My hands and lips move along her skin, desperate to consume every inch of her.

We fall onto the bed, both of us working together to get my bottoms and briefs off. With them still clinging to my right ankle, I settle between her legs, guiding her left knee toward her chest, and push inside of her. Our mouths crash together again.

Hungry.

Desperate.

The perfect union of all that we’ve held back.

The legs of the old metal-frame bed scrape along the floor as the springs whine beneath the thin mattress. Dorothy’s fingers curl into my backside while I drive into her. I don’t want it to end, but the need spurs me on. She spurs me on with her tongue mimicking our rhythm and her back arching off the bed, letting me know she’s close.