Hard Read Free Page B

full of expensive things.
    Simple in the way I don’t worry about the outfit I choose or the style of my hair—ironic, really, since I spent so many years focused on it. But when you can’t find it inside yourself to care about anything, what other people think has no effect on you whatsoever.
    Everything I have ever cared about has been ripped out of my hands. Ripped, shredded, and destroyed. And so I wait. I continue the useless cycle. I get up every morning, go through the motions until my day is done, and I wait for the moment when I don’t wake up. When I no longer have to pretend I’m living. When my suffering finally ends.
    Some days, I open my eyes and burst into tears because I’m still here.
    Others I am resolute.
    Mostly, I am in agony so blinding, I think I’ve begun to numb. It just doesn’t stop. It never goes away. It never leaves me.
    I don’t choose to be this way. Just as I did not choose this loss. I guess, sometimes I wish I knew how to make myself whole again. But how can I be whole when half of my heart is missing?
    Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get it back. At least pieces of it.
    Sometimes I know the truth—I know I never will.
    I huddle back into position and snap my eyes closed, summoning the image of my child once again. My precious baby boy. Back when he was happy and healthy. Back to when he was still mine.

 
    3
    Jensen
     
    Holland follows me inside my home, eyes sliding indifferently over my belongings. As if they are just things and not works of art. She says nothing as she takes step after step, not stopping until she comes to the sofa. She pivots on her heels, turning to face me. Unimpressed and waiting.
    “Would you like a drink?” I offer.
    “No. Thank you.” Her brows lift in a silent question. She wants to get right down to it, which I normally appreciate. But I am the one in control here. I say how this happens. How this happens and when .
    I move around the chair, taking a seat. My hands curl around the plush arms as I openly examine her at my leisure.
    Holland’s fiery hair is up in a clip, not giving away its length. I’ve seen it down a few times before and know it reaches mid-back. I know it is thick and shiny, sexy , and I want to see it now.
    “Remove the clip from your hair.”
    I see the flash of confusion swim across her features before her hand flits up, effortlessly freeing her long locks. They spill across her shoulders like tendrils of silk.
    My hands ache for my camera as I gaze steadily back at her. I let my eyes rake slowly from her head to her feet, repeatedly. Women typically have one of three reactions to my fervent perusal. They either want to slap me, fuck me, or run from me.
    I don’t strike anger, or lust, or fear into Holland as she continues to stand before me. She’s so goddamn perfect.
    Picture perfect .
    I know already, tonight is going to be so much fun.
    “May I photograph you?” My fingernails sink into the softness of the chair. I’m a man who wants often, but I can’t recall ever desiring something this badly before. I’m also accustomed to getting my way. Always.
    Holland’s brows crinkle this time, her confusion displayed openly across her face. “You want to take pictures? Of me?”
    I nod, the movement stiff in my attempt to conceal how greatly I want this. I never let anyone know how much I crave something from them. I never hand over power in such a careless manner. Control is meant to be held, preserved, coveted—or else it loses its meaning. I never give it away.
    “Why?”
    A gradual smirk forms on my lips. Why? That is my favorite question.
    “I love museums,” I say, rising out of my seat. “My home is full of artwork,” I continue as I make my way around the room, stopping just long enough to ensure she follows. And she does, obediently, heels clicking along the hardwood flooring and hands relaxed at her sides as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.
    That will change shortly.
    I open a door, inviting