Page 42 of The Intimacy of Control

Rubbing a hand over my face, I groaned just before forcing myself upright. Maybe I was in over my head with him. This was exactly why I didn’t see anyone more than once. But I’d already broken my rule. There was no going back.

Honesty was hard. Control was easier. Control even if it meant lying? Even easier.

If I were honest, I’d admit that picking up smoking was the dumbest decision I’d ever made in my life. After losing my one true love in life, I’d lost my grip on everything I knew as true. I’d trained for shit like that. I could go without breathing for three minutes and thirty-two seconds. It’d taken me years of training to do that, despite only needing to go maybe five seconds without air on average.

My lungs were the healthiest thing about me. They weren’t made of steel—they were made of putty. I could shape them however I needed them in order to do what I needed them to do.

But in an instant, they’d failed me. They’d failed me, just like the rest of my body had after years of grueling work to make sure they wouldn’t.

I’d never lost.

I’d never failed.

I’d never drowned.

So, after they’d failed me, I’d picked up smoking. If my lungs were putty, I could ruin them if I wanted to. And I did. I chose to harm them. I controlled the decision to let them wither away.

I started smoking a pack a day. Then a pack and a half. Then two. I tried to speed up the process, spending far too much time being way too fucking angry at myself, my body, and the world for failing me the way it had. I’d get physically sick from smoking so much, throwing up every time I scarfed down more and more nicotine than my teenage body could handle.

Once I’d started to cough, I realized I’d done my job right. I’d successfully hurt the two things I’d counted on more than anything else in my life. It felt like payback.

I’d cut back down to one pack, but I couldn’t bring myself to quit entirely. I couldn’t give it up completely. Smoking was the first thing that’d given me an ounce of control back.

Now, I smoked half a pack or less. No more than half a pack. I was doing pretty good, all things considered.

This was my last cigarette of the day, and usually my favorite one. The last one before going to bed always tasted better. Or maybe that was the nicotine addiction talking, though I refused to call it an addiction. To call it an addiction felt like admitting I had no control over it, which I did. I had full control over it.

No, I didn’t.

Shaking my head, I peered over the city lights and two AM traffic below the balcony. I inhaled smoke into my lungs, ignoring the orange glow at the end of the filter because if I watched it, that somehow made it worse. That made me a smoker instead of a person who smoked. Callum liked watching it burn. Callum was a smoker. Callum admitted easily that he didn’t have control over his habit.

I had control over everything. I didn’t watch the glow. Instead, I watched Crescent Planes do what it did best. It thrived, even in the dark.

It was getting warmer. We hadn’t seen snow in a little bit. I wondered if we were done with snow for the year or if we’d get another surprise halfway through. Not that it mattered. Life still went on, and so did New York lives. We hadn’t had a devastating snow in over a decade.

A blizzard. It was a blizzard, and that was the last time I’d seen the city at such a standstill. Callum and I had talked about that blizzard a few times over the years. He’d said it was a big thing at his old job. Price had been the manager, and they’d had to close down, but that Crew had gone missing during it and that Tobi was a fucking mess over it. They all were.

Callum had told me about how it was the first time he’d really gotten to see behind Tobi’s walls. He always said the blizzard was a turning point in their relationship and that he was thankful for it.

Sometimes, I wished I could live in Cal’s head. Just for a little bit. Just enough to understand and see the happiness he seemed to always have inside of him.

I picked up the plastic water bottle I’d brought with me, throwing the rest of my cigarette into it. There was barely enough water at the bottom to put it out and store it. After all the smoke had dissipated, I twisted the cap back on and peered through the sliding glass door.

Forrest’s room was dark except for the lamp on his side of the bed. He was propped up a little, reading something on his phone, his glasses still on the nightstand table. No wonder he was squinting so much.

I kept my laugh to myself as I opened the door and stepped through. He put his phone down, smiling at me. “Hey, sweetie. Ready for bed?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.” I pulled the curtain behind me and found the trash can, throwing the bottle away in it.

The moment I had his robe off and slid into the bed, Forrest had the lamp turned off and was shuffling onto his side, his arms wide open and waiting for me to snuggle into them.

And snuggle I did. I pressed my face into his chest, tangled my legs with his, smoothed my arm around his midsection, and held him as close as he was holding me. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, and I sighed. I sighed because I knew what was coming.

With his warmth, his hold, and his mere presence, I was going to have the best sleep of my life. I always had the best sleep of my life around him. Forrest didn’t only relinquish me of all the things wrong in my head—he gave me the freedom to exist. He gave me relief. He gave me strength.

I listened to his heartbeat slow, matching the same pace as mine, though a lot less broken. There was something more sitting between us. It was right there, waiting to be taken. Accepted.

But I’d need a lot more than strength to take it. I’d have to let go. I wasn’t ready to let go. Instead, I held him as tight and as close as he’d let me and pretended like that was all I needed and all I wanted.