Days With Christian

four | schwellenangst

schwellenangst (n.) - fear of embarking on something new; fear of crossing a threshold.

I SHOULDN'T BE HERE. I decide as soon as I've taken a seat at Le Bernardin, three Michelin stars and definitely one of my favorites. Like everything else, however, I'm uncomfortable, exhausted and certainly not ready.

The man in front of me is not at fault. Abhimanyu Malhotra is incredible to look at, with dark hair and olive skin. At 24, he is the youngest CFO at Sinclair Enterprises till date. The man can hold an intelligent conversation; he's everything I could ever want in a guy. 

It's just that muddy brown hair, chartreuse eyes, lopsided grins and fucking Christian Dioli has become an irritable itch that refuses to disappear. A part of me doesn't want it to, but I have to let go. It's been more than two months, which is exactly why I look up to meet Abhimanyu's whiskey-colored eyes; giving him my full attention.

"I don't even remember the last time I was back in India. I believe it was the summer before junior year." He taps his fingers against the rim of his glass of scotch. "How'd you like it?"

If there was a way to get me to talk, it was to ask about the two years I spend away from home. I wouldn't stop once you got me started. "How could you not go back? If nothing else, Abhi—the food. I swear I saw paradise with that first gol gappa!" He laughs lightly and, maybe, I think for a fleeting moment: I could learn to love him the same way he has loved me for so many years. "It was incredible, Abhimanyu. I could stay there for the rest of my life, I swear."

"Rest of your life, is pushing it a bit, don't you think? What would happen to us here? Deprived of your presence..." He says, leaning forward, a playful smile on his lips, "we wouldn't survive. You won't do that to us, will you?"

"Shut up." I murmur brushing my hair out of my face. I can feel a blush coating my cheeks, because that's exactly what I used to say, except my tone was a lot haughtier and snobbier.

"Kidding," he raises his hands in surrender. A soft smile graces his lips again, this time around his tone is a lot more genuine, "I really wouldn't be able to survive without you, though."

"Abhi—please, don't." I turn my eyes to the table, nipping at my nails. It's been like this, for as long as I can remember, and I tell myself yet again that I shouldn't be here. "We shouldn't—I should go."

"Emerson, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have," his voice sounds broken, but his face tells me that he knows there's no point in asking me to stay. I won't.

I place a few bills on the table, and he looks torn. In that moment I realize that maybe I haven't changed all that much, I can still run away from my problems like a professional. "I'll see you at work, tomorrow."

Before he has time to respond, I'm rushing towards the door, "Ms. Sinclair, I hope everything was to your—"

When I'm sitting in the driver's seat of my Aston Martin, I feel the tremor in my fingers, the lump in my throat, the panic clawing across my skin with a vice-like grip.

Fucking hell.

I fish my phone out of my clutch, clicking on the first name in my list of favorites.

"You can't panic more right now. C'mon count with, Emerson." His hands cupped my face in a gently, as he tipped my face upwards to look into my eyes. "One. Breathe, Emerson. Two. Three..." As my breathing evened out he pressed a kiss to my forehead. "There's my girl."

"You're panicking, Emerson." I tell myself between breaths, "snap out of it."

"Emerson?" 

My breath catches in my throat. After Max had made a lousy excuse that the Christian he had been talking to was his cousin from Washington. I'd refused to say Christian's name out loud again, as though that would somehow help me in not thinking about his stupid self.

"Emerson?"

My breathing turns ragged, my fingers curled around the steering wheel. I should hang up, but there is something strangely romantic about putting myself through this pain. There was a sick sort of pleasure in the way that my heart stops beating for a second and then falls right into his hands just to be broken, yet again.

"Hey, c'mon. Breathe, Em." It's never the breathing that calms me but, it's always his voice. That terrifies me. "There, you've got it."

His voice was just as I remember, a low timbre with a slight tinge of huskiness. It was like a glass of whiskey, warm and intimate, at the end of the day, and fuck music, I could listen to him talk all day.

When I stop heaving his low voice rings through the car, and it's so achingly familiar. "You don't even need me anymore, Gorgeous."

I don't realize I'm crying until a wretched sob leaves my throat. My head falls back on the headrest, I squeeze my eyes shut taking a shaky breath. "Don't say that."

"I should hang up," he murmurs.

Please don't.

He doesn't. I listen to him breathe, and then a sniffle. "I really should go, Emerson." I can picture him, running his fingers through that mess of hair I love; his jaw clenching as he blinks the moisture from his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Christian," my voice is hoarse. "Tell me to let go," a fresh set of tears make their way down my cheeks, "please."

"Emerson—" his voice breaks, and my heart breaks for the boy I left behind. "You know, I can't say that, Gorgeous."

"I can't keep doing this, you know?" My tone is accusing, I can't help it. "Two months, Christian. And I still can't fucking breathe. I see you everywhere and nowhere, you know how terrifying that is? I can't look at another guy without seeing you first. I can't look at myself, Christian," my voice fades into a whisper, as sobs fill my car, "because all I see is what you see in me. It hurts so much, Christian. Tell me to let you go."

"I love you," he says instead.

✈️✈️✈️

would you look at that? i did actually update, in less than two months. wow, i'm on a freaking roll. 

- harshita