“Cecelia, I do want to marry you.”
I turn in his lap and look him over to see his expression is grave.
“Color me confused, Frenchman, but you don’t seem too excited about it.”
“That ends now. I’m not going to push important shit to the back burner anymore, and I’ve kept this confession to myself long enough. This is a conversation we need to have.”
“It can all wait, Tobias. I’m not…I mean…put it this way, my biological clock is completely silent for the moment.”
“I’m kind of hoping you’ll wait on a different clock.” He swallows. “Before we do anything permanent.”
I frown. “What?”
“I’m…” he shakes his head, emotion flitting over his features. “I would marry you right now, Cecelia. Right fucking now, I would give you a ring, a wedding, big or small, pledge my love, but I can’t give you those promises because I might not be able to see them through, to keep them.”
“If we’re talking about fidelity, I may just fucking shoot you.”
“I may be sick.”
My body jars as volts of shock slice through my veins. I can barely manage to get the words out. “What do you mean sick?”
“You know. You’ve always known.”
Two seconds is all it takes as he conveys to me the truth in his eyes.
“For everything I do, there’s a reason behind it.”
His reasoning for a lot of his actions all those months ago is the shame shadowing his features—his true weakness, the fear that plagues him the most.
My love.
My fucking love.
How blind I’ve been. How wrong I was in assuming I knew the totality of his fears, especially that day in his office when he let me walk out of his life. I always believed it was the danger that kept him pushing me away, nothing but the danger he could be to me. Over the years, I have been forced to assume a lot of his reasonings because of his evasion, and that’s on him—but I’m done playing the blame game of where we both went wrong.
From this moment on, I’m done with assumptions because with this man, nothing has ever been what it seems. And in doing that, I can see the reasons for some of his past actions.
“You’re afraid of schizophrenia? You’re afraid you’ll get sick like your father?” My eyes pour over.
“The woman I’ve been speaking to, Sonia,” he pushes out as if he’s terrified of the words themselves, “was my father’s psychotherapist at the mental institution. While he was being treated there, she started conversations with me. She could tell I was struggling with the fear, with my own issues. She’s been helping me find my focus when my mind sometimes betrays me. There’s no genetic testing for it…but some of my behavior is indicative that there’s a possibility I could get sick.”
“It’s anxiety and OCD. There’s a huge difference. He was twenty-eight when he was diagnosed, Tobias. You’ve lived almost ten years past that, already.”
“It could still happen.” He swallows. “I’ve got seven years until the ‘what if’ clock ticks out, and even after there’s a chance. There’s a real possibility it could happen, Cecelia. And I do lose myself sometimes. Especially in the paranoia.”
“It’s to be expected with the line of work you’re in.”
“That’s what she says.” His eyes are cast down, and it devastates me—he’s so deeply ashamed. “But she’s more realistic than you are. There’s a chance, Cecelia. I need you to acknowledge it.”