Page 31 of The Man with the Knot

“All set?” he asks.

“Yes,” I respond shortly. I lean my head onto the back of the seat and close my eyes.

I wish that Brax would suddenly show up in a dramatic fashion and yank open the van doors, pull me out of it and into his arms. But when I look out the window, all I see are more storm clouds and the garish white walls of the hotel’s entryway.

Life can be so depressing sometimes.

I continue to stare out the window as the van takes off, wondering if I might spot a glimpse of Brax somewhere along the coastline. The road is lined with beach and sea, but there’s no one out, seeing the gray clouds on the horizon.

I wish I could stay at Mirago.

Of course, as soon as that thought crosses my mind, reality intervenes. There’s no way I could have made a life here work for me. What would I do? How would I survive? Would I be one of the community’s sex slaves?

I just wish there was another way.

And I just as immediately squash this hope.

If Brax made one thing stunningly clear in our short time together, it’s that he is revolted by the mainland. So yeah, we never stood a chance.

Not to mention that his community is here. I bet he never really leaves because all of his ties are to this place.

That thought brings me some comfort because maybe it’s not me, specifically, that’s the problem. Instead, Brax is merely following the custom of his people.

Still, it hurts, and I cry inwardly. No matter how I try to rationalize that this is all for the best, and no matter how often I tell myself that it’s not my fault.

For the rest of the van ride, my slow tears match the pace of the falling rain.

11

Morgan

“Morgan, I need that write-up before lunch,” one of my colleagues shouts, zooming by as if the building’s on fire.

“I’ll have it to you then,” I reply evenly, barely controlling the urge to roll my eyes at the unnecessary urgency.

It’s not like I don’t know. Herbert has mentioned that he needs the memo three times already today. I get it. Priorities, priorities.

Outside, a winter chill lingers in the air. The sky is filled with heavy clouds and icy days. The sunlight that hits my cubicle consists of nothing but thin, weak rays, so my entire life feels like a little gray bubble that I might never escape. Especially because by the time I get out of work, the sun has long since set and I’m faced with gray sidewalks, gray clouds, gray buildings, and even gray people.

I sigh deeply as I turn back to my old desktop. It’s been getting slower and slower over the last two weeks as if it, too, is in a deep funk. I move the mouse, but the cursor is frozen in place. Damn it. I smack the side of my monitor, hoping that this old trick might urge some life into it, but the screen continues to be stuck as it tries to save a document.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan and bury my face in my hands.

I glance down at my poorly ironed blouse and notice a soy sauce stain. “Well, that’s just great,” I mutter, snatching my water bottle and a napkin. I soak the napkin for a moment and then begin blotting at the stain, knowing that it’s pointless because everything seems pointless these days.

Ever since I returned to the city a little over two weeks ago, I’ve been out of sorts. Everything is janky and somehow justoff. I’ve missed trains that I used to be able to take with my eyes closed. I’ve misplaced more than one important document. Stained clothing is a daily occurrence.

“What is wrong with me?” I mutter.

I throw the useless napkin in the trash and lean back in my chair before letting out a giant huff.

I know exactly what’s wrong with me, but I refuse to admit it. Or at least I won’t admit it out loud: I miss Brax.

At first, I tried to convince myself that what I’m really missing is the thrill of being with someone like Brax: a sexy island stud who showed me a good time. I can admit that we had a ball together. Hell, I can admit that we had the hottest sex ever. It was better than any I’ve ever experienced and probably better than any I everwillexperience again. Because how will I find a man with a huge knot at the base of his cock? He was an anomaly, and there’s no other man with that kind of physique.

But all of my thoughts are just excuses, no matter how I try to rationalize our time together because only one sentiment really matters, and that’s that I miss him.

The admission comes crashing down on me, and I swallow hard to fight back the tears that constantly threaten to spill over.