“And that was clearly a mistake, because?—”
“No,” I interrupt. “You don’t get to call loving me a mistake. Not when nobody has ever loved me a day in my life, and you so freely gave me your love. Unless you truly mean it, and what you felt was euphoria and excitement, not really love.”
She lets out a sigh, but there’s not a tear in sight. I’m so used to watching movies where the first thing women do when they’re upset is cry that I’m conditioned to expect it, but shit, that’s wrong. So wrong. This calm façade she’s sporting gives me more information than almost any word can.
She finally shakes her head.
“No, what? No, you don’t love me, or no, I’m not a mistake?”
“You’re not a mistake, Asher.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “And I do love you.” The storm brewing in her eyes breaksthrough, and she’s finally showing everything she’s been hiding. I see it as clear as day: fear. She’s afraid of loving me. That, I can work with.
Setting the coffee on the nightstand, I reach forward and hold her face. “Good, because I happen to love you too.”
She gasps.
“I’m pretty sure I fell in love with you before I knew your name, Hales. Back when you were my mystery girl.” My face softens into a smile. “The mere idea of you was love-worthy, and the real thing has been even better.”
I try to show with more than my words how much I mean it. I hope she not only hears it but feels it too. “I told you I dreamed of you five years ago, but the reality of being with you can’t compare. This is so much better.”
“But you didn’t come back.”
“I know. I told you why. I was going through hell.” It’s true. I’m sorry, and I hope she knows I mean both truly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, panic behind her eyes.
Caregiver, first and foremost. Oh, my Hales, but who takes care of you? “You have a lot on your plate, and I didn’t want to add more to it.”
“And you thought disappearing for months and then just showing up here is any better? I thought you died, Ash!” She gets up and paces the room. “I set up a Google alert for your name and called your station. Nobody said anything; they just said they were not allowed to disclose any information. And you were hurting this whole time?”
I walk to her, holding her face with both hands, daring her to keep her eyes on mine and see the truth in them. “I was hurting. I didn’t know how to handle it, and all I kept thinking about was your mom needing you here. I eventually was fine. Do you hear me?”
I take her face in my hands, and hold her gaze. “I’m not hurting anymore. You don’t have to take care of me.”
“Did you ever stop to think that maybe I wanted to take care of you, you freaking?—”
“If you say ocean cowboy, baby, I’m going to laugh.”
She narrows her eyes. “If you say ocean cowboy, baby,” she mocks, rolling her eyes. She’s going to give herself whiplash if she doesn’t keep them in check.
“You called me baby.”
“No, you did. I was just repeating,” she quips.
“I want to beyourbaby.” My words are playful now, trying to ease the tension.
“And I want to cure cancer but there are things we can’t have.”
She takes a step back, releasing her face from my hold and turning around. To what? Leave this conversation? No, ma’am.
“Tell me you don’t want me.”
She freezes.
“Tell me sending me monthly letters and seeing me once a year is enough.”
She stands there, back to me, clenching her fists.
“Tell me it’s enough, and I’ll find a way for it to be enough for me too, because I’d rather have you once a year than not at all.”
