Cherry Blossom Girl Ch 01

—My heartfelt thanks to the phenomenally talented EvansLily and TangledinYou for their advice, wit and generosity.—

*

Another kiss. Another mistake. But Sascha ignored the warnings again as she sought out the taste that lingered behind the whiskey and clove cigarettes. The flavor she'd known for six years. Alex's eyes were black when he raised his head. She wanted to take away the vacant look of sadness she read in his sweet face and hold him and keep him safe. Maybe this time he'd let her.

"I missed you, so much," he murmured while he brushed his thumb across her lower lip. That handful of words spoken in quiet amazement was all it took to chase away the hurt that had followed her day and night for weeks.

"So much," he repeated while his eyes roamed her face. He reached inside, held her heart and made it beat again. That's how it felt when Alex looked at her that way.

"I missed you too." She admitted it as though she'd said the three words that made her drive over here full of hope despite everything. A look crossed Alex's face, like the one he wore when he had something to say but wasn't sure he should.

His mouth found hers again before old frustrations tainted the moment. The kiss turned desperate as though he too didn't want to fall back into the past. He palmed her breast and rolled the nipple between his fingers until it hardened beneath the layers of bra and blouse. She gasped into his mouth when his other hand drifted up her thigh to push aside her panties. Maybe it was a trick of time but his touch felt familiar and foreign at once; a bit perfunctory. The thought persisted as he shoved up her skirt and settled between her thighs.

"We probably shouldn't do this."

Her fingers twined around his black, shaggy waves. How she'd missed its soft weight. "I know."

"Do you want to stop?"

Despite knowing the right answer to say, Sascha shook her head and spread her legs wider for him. His zipper rustled. The hair on his thighs scratched her skin as his weight bore down on her.

"Me neither." He brushed his knuckles across her cheek and lowered his head. "Nobody since you." Any resolve she had left dissolved.

Another kiss. Another mistake.

The sandalwood on his skin teased her nose. "Eu quero você," he whispered against her jaw.

I want you

. Portuguese. A double blow to her Achilles heel. It didn't matter that something other than love drifted into his tormented words. Not when she had him in her arms again.

Alex entered her.

It was too soon, he moved too fast. It was an end to the loneliness he'd left her with forty-two days ago.

"Sorry."

"I'm okay," she told him because the discomfort had faded before he raised his head. When he remained still, she canted her hips to prove her point. The muscle in his jaw twitched, so she did it again.

His breath fanned her temple. "I won't last if you keep doing that."

He resumed movement; his low sounds of pleasure carried to her soul as his pace became urgent again. Quick wasn't uncommon for them but tonight she welcomed it wholeheartedly because it had been so long, because every frantic thrust proved how much he wanted her, how much she mattered. Because after all this time, she was the one Alex trusted to help him fight his demons. "Need to be closer..."

"Yes."

Her hands rushed under his shirt, seeking the warmth of his skin and more of a connection even as she held him inside her but his back and forth momentum frustrated her attempts to drag the shirt up his back. He stopped to help her peel it off. The Saint Christopher pendant swung above her chest, taking her back to the day she gave it to him, before his first trip back to Brazil since the accident.

Saint Christopher was the patron of travelers, she explained when she first fastened the chain around his neck. "I'll never take it off," he promised. They made love for the first time that afternoon; her first time.

She brailed the silver chain's delicate links. Did he wear it out of habit now? She searched his eyes for an answer. One moment merged into the next while the TV's pewter light flickered across his face. She expected him to pull down the invisible mask that had become permanent over the past eight months but Alex's gaze stayed on hers. Six years passed in one look and there it was—the bond that defied heartbreak and logic. The reason she rushed here after work even as one word followed her to his door. Mistake. In this moment they were Sascha and Alex again, the way it should be. This couldn't be a mistake.

He shut his eyes and moved again. She waited for his tenderness but there was no battle for restraint. It was as if he were chasing something or trying to escape inside her. His tongue traced her lower lip, distracting her from the dull ache that followed every hard lunge. Sascha clung to him even as her eyes watered. The more Alex needed the more she had to give; being wanted like this had brought her back to life.

He slid his hands under her shoulders, bracing her as he pressed her deeper into the couch. With an anguished groan, he called out her name; his accent curled around it, drew it out. A wave of regret washed over her when she recognized the note in his voice. This would be over soon. She wrapped her arms around his back and savored the feeling of being close to him again.

"Yes—yes," he grunted over and over while the couch squeaked in time with his frenzied pumping. It was as if he couldn't burrow deep enough within her. His mouth covered hers just as his next thrust caused her to flinch. The one after that made her retreat into the couch.

"Slo-slow down," she told him in a hesitant voice that wavered between the belief he would and the fear he wouldn't. "Alex?" She pushed at his shoulder, gently at first to grab his attention, then panic set in.

***

The fight raging inside Sascha finally receded. It stirred like the sea after a storm, calmer now, forcing broken fragments of shock and betrayal to the surface. She clung to the relief that the ugliness was just a moment, a moment gone. He hadn't meant it; it had to be his drinking. Her mind rejected the image in front of her—seeing and not seeing—Alex disoriented and kneeling between her legs, his shaft aimed downward. She closed her eyes from it.

Breathe.

She jerked when light, liquid taps across her thigh burst through her temporary refuge. If only she could fold in on herself until she didn't inhabit this skin or this moment. A heavy quiet filled the room even as the TV played on. It was as if each one of them was waiting on the other for cues on what to do next. He turned away the instant their eyes met again.

The familiar gesture hit her as if she was seeing it for the first time. Here she sat in the same room with the person she loved most, unable to stop the distance from growing between them. This space—the not together but not fully apart—was torture.

She trained her gaze down to her body, trying to quell the unease before it engulfed her. Her white blouse and navy skirt remained undisturbed for the most part. Only the pale cream on her right thigh betrayed the fact that they'd had sex—if that's what it could've been called. The marks on his arms reddened in condemnation.

"Are you—are you alright?"

His question took a moment to register and even then she didn't know how to answer him. Before tonight she believed Alex would never intentionally try to hurt her but now...?

She didn't know what to make of this unsettled feeling inside her and the questions it stirred, so she waited for him to reach for her the way he always had before he retreated to that space where he deserved no happiness, no peace. She waited while he pulled up his shorts, waited as emotion wedged inside her throat while he used his shirt to wipe her leg with the same efficiency he'd use to wipe crumbs off a countertop. She was still waiting when he left the couch.

"Sascha?"

Voices on the TV faded in and out. She wanted out of here. Fast. But the leather stuck to her skin like a Band-Aid as she fidgeted with her skirt. He called her name again.

"What?" She couldn't look at him. She'd never felt like this with Alex—fucked, used like a thing.

"I'm sorry I... I don't want you to think—"

"Don't worry, I know what the deal is. You thought a quick screw would make you feel better and I was handy. That's the real reason why you called me here, right?" The words tasted vile but knowing how course language irked Alex made the utterance worthwhile. His face lost its tan for a moment, making the scar near his hairline less perceptible. Her barb had hit its mark so why didn't she feel better?

"That's not true and you know it, so don't make it sound like that." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You wanted it too."

She wanted

him

and to be close again but never like this. Sascha realized two things: he'd made no ardent denials and he was right. She let this happen. That was the worst part of tonight... and the fact that he made what happened her fault. Anger turned to acid in her stomach. She grabbed her bag and rushed to the door.

Alex wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back into his chest before she twisted the doorknob. When she resisted his hold he said, "Sascha, stop."

"I'm sorry...please forgive me," he whispered above her ear while he rocked her. She blinked away the heat behind her eyes. "I didn't mean to hurt you like that, you know that right? I'm so sorry,

querida

. So sorry."

His remorse was so palpable it made her pain worse, made it impossible to struggle as he held her close and kissed her temple. Minutes and hours could have flown by while Alex soothed her with his words, his touch. "You don't have to leave."

But he hadn't asked her to stay either.

He turned her to face him. "What's wrong?"

The gentleness in his voice was cruel. She kept her eyes on the tile and willed herself not to cry. If only she could learn to hate him... a little. Her head fell forward in sadness; for whom she didn't know. "This back and forth we keep doing, it's killing me. You want to act like things are the same but they're not. No—" she said, stepping out of his reach. Another mistake. She had to resist the urge to smooth away the hurt look her little rejection caused.

It wasn't her job anymore to make everything okay. But damn, it was hard when he watched at her with those haunted brown eyes and knowing she'd given him pain he didn't need. Not today of all days. She reached for his hand despite herself.

"I know. It's just today...I really needed my best friend." He squeezed her hand and tested a smile on her. "You still are, you know. Don't think I take for granted how good you've been to me."

That's she had to get out of here; she liked hearing him say that too much. When Alex spoke like that and looked at her that way, he made her hope. He made her want to fight for them. But what was the point if he wouldn't meet her halfway? There was one thing she had to do before she left.

Alex watched in exasperation as she grabbed the bottle off the coffee table. "Come on, this is stupid," he said when he realized what she was about to do.

"No, this is called being a friend," Sascha stated as she poured the whiskey down the kitchen sink. She opened the cabinets above. "Where's the rest?" He didn't bother to answer while she searched the corner cabinet next to stove; she'd found the secret stash. She uncapped the virgin bottle. "Jaime wouldn't want this for you. Do you think wrecking your life honors his?"

"Stop being so dramatic." His reasons for drinking had nothing to do with honor. He just wanted to forget what today meant. Even for a little while.

But the first shot of whiskey didn't make him forget that he couldn't take Jaime out for his first legal drink. The second shot didn't help him forget the conversation he'd had with his mother or that his father wouldn't come to the phone. Each swig promised to be the one that would drive away the images in his head. The irony of it all hit him when he put the bottle to his mouth. He was drinking the poison that had taken his baby brother. Desperation made him call the one person who could make this day better.

And he'd used her just like the alcohol she poured down the sink.

He turned his back, unable to look at her, unable to have her watch him. The couch confronted him with its fresh memories. He'd looked away but Sascha's face, the things in her eyes she couldn't hide, remained stamped on his brain.

Whiskey and guilt had sent him spiraling into a black hole, one he tried to pull himself out of by chasing the momentary peace he always found within her. Tonight it stayed just beyond his reach—until her faint cry floated to his ear. The sound reminded him he wasn't alone and unleashed something primal, making him drive into her again and again, desperate to hear her. Instead of salvation he found shame. He'd failed her. Again. He was tired of saying sorry, tired of being sorry. And worst of all, he done this; he'd given her something else to hold over him.

But there she was in his kitchen, doing her best to protect him when she should be protecting herself. After everything, she still operated as though he had something better to offer her and he resented how it added to the guilt he'd been trying to escape all day, all week. These feelings baffled him.

She

baffled him. But when was the last time when his life made sense?

He didn't understand why he was drawn to hurt her, knowing that she'd still take more—for him, and no one else. A person had to be cruel, weak and disturbed to revel in that kind of power, even for a moment—and there'd been too many of those. These perverse highs scared him and they came with a price. Like the moment when she wouldn't look him in the eye after...

Why did she come back? Why did she still care? Sometimes he wondered if there was something wrong with her. Over the last months he'd said and done things just to see how far she'd go, what it would take for her to break and turn her love into hate. He needed Sascha to relieve him of the burden of being the one who ended things and broke her heart. But she kept seeing something good in him, in them. God, sometimes he wanted it to be true.

Walking away from six years had to be crazy. Yet why wasn't he happy when she had everything he could want in a woman? He dreaded the day when someone else would take his place in her life. People were always drawn to her laughter and light; she wouldn't be alone for long.

"You don't need this," she said and threw the bottles in the garbage.

No, just you

.

She was once his light. But now his light didn't smile the way she used to. But then he didn't know her the way he used to. A yellow undertone stained her complexion, telling him that she'd been sick again and not sleeping enough. He'd put that on her and he couldn't bear to be around her because of it. Sascha deserved better than this. It hurt him to push her away. He hurt her when he pulled her back. Hurt. The word made him sound so soft. He didn't know what was worse; feeling this way or having her witness it. Damn Cortazar pride.

"Alex—" Her voice wobbled. "You take care of yourself, okay?"

Her brown eyes begged him to love her again, begged him to make things right. She reached out her hand then stopped. The gesture gutted him. There was a time she wouldn't have hesitated to touch him. She reached out again and touched his arm as if she wasn't sure but couldn't help it. Being the center of her world, knowing she adored him, was part heaven, part hell.

This back and forth is killing me.

She needed to let go...for both their sakes.

"Sascha..." They had one last chance before she walked out the door.

She waited. One breath turned into two then three.

Say something, please. Don't let what happened tonight be for nothing.

"You too," he said quietly before he grabbed a disc off the kitchen counter. "And don't forget this."

Still dumbfounded over the CD, she fumbled with the doorknob after they said goodbye and hurried outside. Alex had always walked her to her car when she left this late. It was the first time in six years he didn't bother to ask. He just stood inside the doorframe and watched her go.

He'd casually broken heart all over again.

* * *

The parking spot was the reminder that made her tears fall. It was reserved for the owners of unit 406. Owner.

406 was going to be their way of saying they were committed to making it work. The fact that it was Alex's idea had been enough to make her cast aside the lack of enthusiasm her friends showed when she'd shared her plans. When her parents baulked at the idea of Alex and her committing themselves to each other in a bank instead of in a church, she defended the idea as if it were hers. Worse, she'd chosen to believe in Alex despite the uneasiness she'd carried throughout their house hunt.

Never mind that everyone else's doubts mirrored her own or that their anemic sex life had gone on life support, Sascha dismissed the fact that Alex kept forgetting to give up his lease. She forged ahead and it worked until three weekends before closing day and after months of dancing around the truth, Alex finally decided to be candid. The day so many first-time home buyers looked forward to cemented the end of the future she'd hoped for. And needing her parents' help to close the deal piled shame atop her heartbreak.

She tapped her head on the steering wheel. God, she wished this were a dream because at least she could look in the mirror and not question why she did the very things she'd advise a stranger not to: like letting her ex reduce her to a booty-call and looking for something to cling to afterwards.

Her stupidity poured down her cheeks until the back of her eyes felt as bruised as her body. The emptiness inside her weighed heavier than when she'd driven out of this garage this morning. Just when she'd convinced herself she'd made some decent progress, she undermined it all by going over to his place. It was as though he sensed it when he called her.

Mantuition.

The storm of tears passed quicker this time. The one good thing about the drawn out breakup was that she'd met her cry quota by the time it was officially over. But unofficially...? That's what kept her in the car rocking and hugging herself. Would she always be like this, numb and waiting for what? Was there a vaccine for this type of lonely?

Her phone's message alert chimed. Alex's timing was perfectly sadistic.

Prick.

If only she felt this way about him for more than a minute.

She read his text over and over like the fool that she was, flattered he cared enough to see if she'd made it home safe and frustrated that it still mattered to her this much. She studied the screen and forced herself to remember the fight that started the end of them forty-two days ago.

"I can't do this." He paced her living room while she remained silent, waiting for him to finally tell what was wrong. "I can't pretend it's okay you took their side."

"There is no right or wrong side to take—this isn't about me and you know it."

"Don't tell me how I feel; I hate it when you do that."

She'd all but stomped her feet in frustration. "I've been asking you for months, Alex! Maybe if you opened up to me, I wouldn't have to guess what's going on in your head—like you punishing me for having an opinion you don't agree with."

But Alex held onto the black and white image he'd painted, refusing to admit he'd been unfair. Instead of going off on him, Sascha reached for patience.

"If that's the way you feel then we shouldn't live together. And if you're going to keep shutting me out instead of us working through this, then what's the point of us being together?" She'd said it to shake him up. Only her plan had a fatal flaw: she expected Alex to want a future with her.