Until I Saw You (Until I Saw You #1)

by Dianna Roman

If I pretend to act like pre-fall Riley, maybe they’ll treat me like pre-fall Riley because more than seeing, I just want to be me again. I’m the one losing his sight, but everyone else seems to be having vision issues. They treat me like I disappeared.

“Do you have any snacks?” “Snacks?” “Yeah. Snacks. Chocolate dream cakes. Funyuns. Oh! Or maybe those little donut packs, but not the crunchy coconut ones. Those things are an abomination to all things snack related.” I have no clue where my next meal is coming from, and the thing that stands between me and landing this job depends on my ability to produce snacks? Slack-jawed, swallowing air between me and Snacky McSnackers, my single remaining nutrient rich brain cell remembers my mad dash packing to get out of the apartment last week before Dallas returned.

And then he smiles. My God, it’s the definition of what a smile should be. The fact that it’s over something I suggested sparks a tiny ember inside me as though he’s spreading his energy. What the hell am I thinking? Remember yourself, Harper. Get a grip. I stifle a sardonic laugh. I’ve let Dallas beat my self-esteem down so far, I’m treating an approving smile like a gold medal.

“Okay. Now you are staring. I can feel it.” “Sorry. I was just—” Staring at your mouth?

“Jedi…diah?” “Yeah. We can’t call him Larry! That’s a terrible name for a dog. This place is awful. They can’t even give a dog a proper name. Why’d you bring me here?”

“I’ll never see the people I know age. I’ll never know what anyone new I meet looks like. Just…being blind is like being stuck in the past, if you think about it.”

He has a happy trail, a sexy, sandy-colored happy trail. Of course, he does. He’s always happy. Uhn. Make it stop. Take my eyes instead.

“Can we get an order of those toasted cheddar bites?” “They have cheddar bites?” I ask, perking up. Why is he just telling me this now? “Dude, give me an order too,” I tell barista guy. “No,” Harper corrects. I’m about to throat punch him and tell him both his employment and our new friendship is over, but he adds, “Just one please. The ones I ordered are for him.” Oh. He ordered me cheesiness of his own accord. Ten points to Harper.

Maybe in another life, where men don’t have to cry, he’d be bursting in on me every morning like he did the other day. I wouldn’t cover up, but rather open my arms, expecting the intrusion as part of our daily ritual. There wouldn’t be broken ribs and broken coffee tables, only ugly dogs named Larry, the sound of laughter, and mischievous green eyes that soothe my aching soul. Maybe in another life, there’s a gay Riley for a guy who’s gotten everything wrong in this one.

I’ve never been into guys, but for some reason I have this urge to reassure him that a man can be physically tender, to show him he deserves nothing less than that.

“I wish people came with warning labels,” he offers when I trail off. “Or like a character trait menu on a video game.” Holding his hand up like air brackets, he accentuates, “Likes cheese. Has ugly dog. Weaknesses: pizza. Strengths: insatiable modesty.”

“We take chances on people, the same way they take chances on us. If we didn’t, everybody’d be alone.”

“Does Dustin go get his man, or does he marry that chick his family’s trying to force on him? It’s fucking killing me not knowing! I swear, my brain’s going to explode!” Holy crap. He’s…actually serious. I’ve created a gay porn monster.

I don’t think he has any idea how much he’s literally changed my world. He’s a compass that’s made it possible for me to navigate again.

How am I supposed to think of him as a friend when he’s rewritten my definition of perfect boyfriend material?

Before I can protest, the cold wet tip of his double-scoop cone connects with my cheek. “Did I miss your mouth?” he asks innocently. “You did that on purpose,” I crack up, reaching for the napkins. “I’m so sorry,” he laments in his signature deadpan, but then another wet kiss of ice cream grazes my earlobe.

Trying to describe a prostate orgasm to your straight boss-slash-patient should not be among anyone’s job experiences.

The idea of anything sounds better with him.

His hand was meant to be in mine. It makes sense there. I don’t want it to ever stop making sense.

Ignoring myself, I steal a glance on my mad dash to my room and stop in my tracks. He’s…touching his lips, the lips that just kissed me, the lips that I just kissed. He’s touching our kiss, and he’s…smiling.

I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life, and that’s saying a lot since I lost my sight this year. I’m happy because of him.

“Do you have heart problems?” “No.” Of course, his assumption is clinical. I hate the reminder that he sees me as a patient, but warm at the concern in his voice. “Does anyone in your family?” he asks, holding my pulse point on my wrist, which makes my heart kick like a mule. “No.” “When did this start?” The second I smelled sugar cookies and heard your nervous voice when I opened my door two months ago? Licking my chlorinated lips, I swallow, unsure why I shoot for honesty. “A few weeks ago.” “A few weeks ago? And you didn’t tell me?” “I thought…maybe it’d go away.” “Riley, you should have said something! How often does it happen?” I want to laugh at the irony. He was worried about me drowning. The only thing I’m in danger of drowning in is him. Catching my breath, I confess, “Whenever I’m near you. Whenever you touch me.”

“Was that…a pity kiss?” I manage, wondering if I’ve just been treated to more sympathy. The breath from his scoff ghosts my skin. “Did it feel like pity?” “I’m not sure. Maybe you should show me again.” “That was a you’re-my-boss-but-I-can’t-help-it-any-longer-kiss.

I don’t know why I imagined men kissing men would be rough and mechanical. We’re writing a song, a soft, tender song with our mouths, with our tongues, our heady breaths.

“Are you…living one of my romance novels vicariously through me?” he asks, playfully, but I sense it’s a veil for more of his doubts. “Maybe that’s what you’re doing to me,” I tease in return. “No, Riley,” he whispers. “Nobody could write you.”

“You smell like sugar cookies,” he says, his lips trailing up my neck. “Drives me crazy.” My toes tingle at the odd but intimate confession. It also helps me slam on the brakes. Of course, he’s trying to devour my neck. The man loves his snacks. I’m a snack.

“Harper,” I whisper my favorite word. “Riley,” he whispers back.

Going blind might have been the best thing that ever happened to me. It brought me Harper.

“Hey,” I scold, setting the bag back over his puffy skin. “No ice. No kisses.” “It’s in the way of my kisses!” Snorting, I shake my head at him. “You’re a terrible patient.” His lips purse, but he holds the bag where it needs to be. “I prefer the title noble avenger.”

I don’t care that Dallas found me. I don’t care that he threatened me and Riley. I don’t care that he knows I’m with another man. I’m not his anymore, and I’m happy. This moment is ours, mine and Riley’s. Nothing can touch us here but each other. Nothing can take this away. There’s only giving, all the affection and spoiling I want to give him, all the laughter he gives to me.

There’s fragility when people break you, but there’s fragility in being put back together too.

Peaceful. Happy. Gorgeous. Mine. As all those images fade and blur, as my head pounds beyond reason, I take comfort in knowing that when everything is black again, they’ll still be true. Peaceful. Happy. Gorgeous. Mine.

“What?” I asked. With a forlorn smile and shake of his head, all he whispered was, “Just wish I could look at you.” And then he kissed me like he was sealing a promise.

“I’ll come really quick,” he reassures me. “Like so quick, you won’t believe it.” “That’s…the least sexy thing I’ve ever heard.” “I’m serious.” “So was I.”

“I’m going to knock so much shit over with this thing. I want them to know I like you, but this isn’t how I imagined showing them,”

I barely need to rely on sounds anymore to locate him, sensing his presence always seems to be enough, like my heart will take me where I want to go. Okay, it’s probably that I’ve gotten that good at echolocation, but my theory sounds more romantic.

“You can tell me when you can see, and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.” “Then you should stay or take me with you because that’s where I want to be.”

“This thing inside my chest? Do you feel that? It bangs on my ribs like it’s trying to break out of a cage whenever I’m with you or without you, whenever I think of you. Let me let it out, Harper,” I plead. “Please? It’s yours already anyway.”

“You don’t care?” he asks. “What he did to me? I mean, you don’t care that this is what’s left of me?” “What’s left of you? Baby, anyone can be a victim, but not everyone can be a survivor. You’re a survivor,”

“You taught me how to see. I honestly don’t know why God gave me eyes before you came along, because I didn’t use them for a damn thing until I saw you.”

He helps me with my tie and buttons, and then I help him. Equals. Lovers. No scorecard of who is more helpless than the other.

I learned the most glorious secret of the universe—what it’s like to truly be in love. It’s a fall that never ends. It’s a plummet where everyone is blind.

I know he won’t see it, but I swear the man can smell when I’m smiling. Maybe he just knows how much I love him and that there’s always a smile on my face.