“I understand. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“I urge you to make me a priority, as I have you.”
He nods. “You have my word.”
Her eyes find mine behind him, and she gestures to Tobias, who glances back at me, either already aware or being made aware I’m standing behind him. I can’t tell which. They end the call, and I wait for an explanation, standing just behind him, my blood running hot.
“Exodus business,” he says simply and stands before he faces me. The lie too easy to detect.
“Right,” I say, turning on my heel and slamming open the back door.
“Cecelia,” he grits out, following me inside, a soft curse leaving him as I whirl on him.
“You thought I was in the shower,” I snap.
“I’m not hiding anything.”
I scoff. “You just lied to my face.”
“Cecelia,” he grips me by the arm. “It’s a confession for a later time.”
“Are you fucking her? Have you fucked her?”
“Jesus, no.” He releases my arm. “Trust me, you’ll know sooner than later. We called a truce, remember?”
“Fuck your truce,” I snap, my jealousy winning over logic. He didn’t shy away when caught, but it’s not good enough.
“Is she part of what you’re hiding?”
“Yes, but don’t, Trésor, don’t jump to conclusions.” The timbre of his voice more mournful than fearful. “It’s nothing like what you’re thinking. This explanation you will get in great detail. She wants to speak with you.”
“Well then, get her back on the phone, King. I’m all ears.”
“Not yet.”
“Only when it’s convenient for you, right? Like you won’t tell me why you’re pacing at night instead of sleeping and checking in with the birds on watch more often than necessary. Or why you get so lost in your head sometimes, you stare right through me. Maybe you’ll tell me, maybe, or maybe you’ll run away from giving the explanations I deserve like you did in Paris. Trust you, right? Trust you. How can you ask me for what you won’t give?”
I stalk off and slam my bedroom door. That night, he wraps around me wordless. His silence festers, keeping me awake.
Cher Journal,
This morning we got into a fight, and it was a nasty one. She thinks I’m an ‘overbearing, arrogant, caveman with a God complex, who needs to loosen the reins a bit.’ I yelled at her in English and cursed at her internally in French for two hours before I stormed out of the house and ran until my legs gave out. But I’m not sure she understands the fear that drives me to act the way I do. I’m not sure she understood me clearly enough when I said I wouldn’t survive losing her. Maybe I’m selfish, but I want more of this life we started together. I’m too afraid one wrong fucking move will end it all. I need her to listen to me because my fear is real. And I can’t temper it no matter how hard I try.
I wish so much that she could experience this fear for just a few seconds if only to help her understand. That I could let her witness the catastrophe that continually rages in my head that leads to the needles that turn to knives stabbing my chest to the point I suffocate from it. If only she knew how it felt, then maybe I wouldn’t be such a ‘chest-beating moron.’ Or perhaps I should just man the fuck up and tell her I’m sorry. But even doing that, I know I’ll only act this way again. No matter how much I want to trust her instincts, and no matter how much I’m beginning to fear the Beretta in her purse because I swear, I saw murder in her eyes mid-fight.
So, my confession is this—I will always act this way, feel this way, insist on my own way when it comes to her protection, to keep these feelings from taking over. To keep her with me.