I don't know what it is that makes me put my hand on his head like that. Maybe it's the angle from which I'm looking at him. I don't think he's ever been at my feet like this. Well, no, that's not true. Derek went down on his knee to propose, but I was sitting on a blanket at the time. We were having a picnic at the Morton Arboretum in spring. The day was cooler than we had expected and Derek gave me his jacket. It was beautiful, romantic. My heart fluttered like butterfly wings and yaddayaddayadda.
Cut to now.
I grab a fistful of his hair and twist. All the anger and hurt inside me, the sense of betrayal, the confusion and worry, all of it suddenly transforms into a desire to hold this man down. To take control of my feelings by taking control of him. He hurt me first, so I'm justified, right?
I'm only resetting the scales.
He flinches, a sharp gasp escaping him, and his eyes dart up to mine, wide with confusion. I freeze for a beat, hand still tangled in his hair, fingers trembling as I realize what I'm doing. But I don't let go yet.
I like this feeling of being in control.
My heart is racing. I know I'm on the verge of something.
I expect him to pull away, to get angry or embarrassed. To shake me off, ask me what's going on. But he doesn't. He stays perfectly still, kneeling on the floor in front of me, his hands braced on his thighs. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, and there's a look in his eyes that makes me feel completely off balance.
Gratitude. Like this is Christmas morning and I've given him exactly what he's been wishing for.
Derek has always been calm, relaxed, casual. Even when we fought, he was measured, carefully holding back his words. He never pushed back, always pulled away instead. Sometimes to the point where it irritated me. Before the cake tasting catastrophe he never hurt me. This Derek—the one at my feet, cheeks flushed, gaze locked into mine—feels like an entirely different creature dressed in his skin.
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. I'm angry. No, furious. And I'm scared—of this new Derek whose moods and actions I can't predict, of myself, of whatever the hell is happening to us. The kiss with Emily, the cancelled wedding, the desperate texts, the way he's been hovering around me like I'm the only thing keeping him from flying apart at the seams. It's all so different and weird, and I don't understand where our life has gone. What the hell happened to normalcy?
"What is this?" I snap, my voice sharp and breathless, cutting through the tense silence. "What are you doing, Derek?" It's deranged for me to be asking him that when I'm the one pulling his hair, hurting him on purpose.
He looks up at me, his eyes filled with that peculiar spark, and his mouth opens like he's going to answer. But no words come out. Instead, he closes his eyes, his shoulders slumping as though he is aiming to make himself even smaller.
I really want to hold on to my anger because that's an emotion I understand. "Do you even hear yourself?" I push, my voice rising. "You kissed her. You allowed whatever it is between you and this other woman to grow, and now you're here—like this—acting like a kicked little puppy, like you can't even function without me." I tug lightly on his hair, just enough to punctuate my point, and his breath hitches. Does this turn him on? And what if it does?
"I can't," he murmurs, eyes snapping open. "I literally can't function without you, Skye."
Those words are a freight train running over me, and my stomach twists violently. It's not the apology I expected, it's definitely not the one I deserve. Not even close. This is messy and so fucking strange. Derek's tone isn't just desperate—it's worshipful, as though I'm this sacred being, something he cannot bear to lose, when just days ago he pretty much ghosted me. But what if this is just manipulation? An extreme form of weaponized incompetence?
"You sound insane," I say, aiming for a rational tone and missing by a mile. "You don't get to come here and tell me that. Not after everything."
"I know," he breathes, his hands curling into fists on his knees. "I know I don't deserve you. I know I messed up. But it's like… like something broke in me, Skye. Like everything became all shattered without you. I don't know how to explain it." He shifts slightly, leaning forward so the weight of his head presses into my hand. He's giving himself over to me. If he were a dog, he'd be rolling over, presenting his throat. "I need you. I love you. I'll do anything for you. I swear."
I don't move my hand. I feel him press into my touch and then I feel something else, that he's trembling.
"Please, Skye, please. I'll go nuts without you. I don't know what I'll do. I wasn't in control of myself when I went to Kaylee's. It was like I was trapped in a nightmare, like I'd die if I didn't find you."
I shake my head, this is clearly wrong. This isn't love. It's disturbed, obsessive, twisted into a shape I've never seen from this man before. The Derek I knew would never act like this. He would never beg. He would never look at me like I hold the key to his salvation. Even when he proposed, he didn't stare at me like this, his eyes shiny with adoration and brimming with tears. Every book on relationships I've ever read warns of this kind of behavior. There are red flags all over this.
"Derek," I say. "This isn't healthy."
"I know. I know that. But it's real, it's how I feel. I'll really do anything to make you happy, those aren't just words, I'm dead serious."
He tilts his head up to me, my hand still in his hair. I can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "Skye, please just let me try to make you happy again. I'll give you anything you ever wanted."
*Jesus*, I think. I can't help the flutter in my chest. Some sick little part of me is actually excited to hear him talk like that, to see him on his knees. The look in his eyes pulls on my heartstrings with the strength of a tractor. If he is just trying to bulldoze me with this naked display of feelings, he's succeeding. This is so far removed from his proposal where, still on one knee, he had to point out what a sensible decision marriage was, and not just because of the tax breaks. Maybe I've been secretly yearning for exactly this, a vulnerable, grovelling man laying his bare heart at my feet, just waiting for me to stomp on it.
And I could. I could scream at him, pick at all the faults I've seen over the course of our relationship, rip them out into the open like scabs, put my finger in every open wound and then finally throw him out of the apartment, out of my life.
But I even as I think that I wonder if it really would be that easy. Men who don't want to leave usually find ways not to. My heart is racing. An image of my dad flashes through my mind. That's not Derek. Derek is safe. Derek is apologizing. Derek made a mistake, but he loves me. He's asking for forgiveness.
So I don't stop him when his hands move from his legs to mine, because his touch is tender, reverent even, and he looks at me and asks me:
"May I?"
I nod. The sound of his voice is tantalizingly husky and his touch is so hesitant, so careful. It feels like a first.
This unsure, unsteady exploration and somehow that's what makes it so exciting. His palms sliding along my skirt as he bows deeper and I finally let his hair slide through my fingers, allowing him this movement. He reaches my ankles and lifts the hem of my skirt. He leans forward and his whisper drifts up to me as though from another time. A time before phones and social media, before cars and computers, a past I can only imagine.
"Please Skye, let me make you feel like the goddess that you are."
His lips graze my ankle as his hands keep pushing up my skirt. I should be laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of his words, or call him out for being weird.But I don't do either.
Instead, I just say: "Yes."