“Don’t you fucking dare!” I boom. “I’d rather you take that fucking Beretta from your purse and shoot my cock!”
“Don’t tempt me, King!” She turns, tossing the fresh pair of flannel pajamas on the bed—same fucking pattern, this pair in light blue, and I’ve never in my life hated the sight of an inanimate object so much. She drops the fuzzy socks—the cherry on top—onto the pile, and I cup the back of my neck and stare up at the ceiling.
“You just want to hold a grudge,” I huff. “We were getting closer this morning, and this is your way of fucking that up. You’re cowering away, again.”
Silence ticks by along with the small clock next to her head, just before she hurls it at me and misses me by an inch.
I take a step forward as she jerks the top of the pajamas over her head, and it might as well be a knife to the chest. It’s clear I’m not the only one who plays dirty. “We just relived every bad fucking thing that happened between us, Tobias. I think it’s best we just stop talking.”
“Yeah, because that’s been working out for us so far. And it makes your whole argument moot. More silence—that ought to help.”
When she reaches for the pajama pants, I hit my limit.
“If you so much as stick a toe in those goddamned pants, you’re declaring war, and all bets are off!”
She shoves a leg in as my patience snaps.
“Merde. Bon sang, femme. Tu me testes au-delà de mes limites!” Fuck. Goddamn it, woman. You are testing me past my limits.
She pushes her second leg in, pulling the drawstring tight around her waist to rub the salt into my gaping chest. “Well, welcome to the fucking club, Frenchman! Good to see we’re finally on the same page!”
“Anything but. We’re not even in the same fucking place anymore.”
“Fine with me.” She points to the door. “You know the way out.”
She sucks in a breath, and I can see her immediate regret. The shred in my chest is barely manageable as I drop my gaze and grab a pillow from my side of the bed. “Well then, my treasure, I’ll save you the trouble of showing me the door twice.”
I spent the majority of the night tossing and turning, knowing I could ease the too-familiar ache of missing him by simply taking his hand and guiding him back to bed. And once his arms were around me, I could take back the words I didn’t mean. But a lot of those words I did mean.
His recalling of our story to my mother blew my mind and shed some much-needed light on so many things. That’s all I want, but he was right. I’ve refused him at almost every turn to explain his reasoning for the things he’s done. I’ve damned near made it impossible for him to confess anything by both avoiding him and his explanations.
Putting our own story into words reminded me of just how much we’ve been through, but it also reminded me of the reason we can’t fully mend—all of the fucking secrecy.
He can’t change his spots overnight. All things ingrained—bad habits included—have cemented his personality over time.
Secrets are who and what he is, because he’s lived as a secret himself for countless years.
If I want this to work, I’m going to have to remember that and try not to resent him for the secrets he still harbors.
Whether he’s aware or not, he’s still keeping them—selectively.
After letting Beau back in, I tread lightly through the living room before using one of the discarded throw pillows to kneel in front of where he sleeps. He’s completely unguarded as he draws heavy breaths, his thick black lashes fanning over his sharp cheekbones. He’s bundled in one of the patched quilts I bought from an antique store when I moved here. He looks wildly out of place on my short couch that he dwarfs with his sleeping form. Fingers itching to touch, Beau beats me to it by licking the side of his face. He grunts in disgust, pulling the covers over his head as I muffle my giggle. I expect him to resume his snoozing, but his voice sounds beneath the thick blanket.