“I know,” I whisper. “And I’ll spend every day making sure I never do it again.”
Her eyes search mine, then squeeze shut. “I’m sorry.”
When she opens them, I hold her gaze. “Don’t apologize. Not for this. Not to me. I understand why you’re scared. And it’s me who should be sorry. That you can’t trust me. That I’m not your safe place, when that’s exactly what I should have been. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me most. Sorry that I’m the reason you needed someone in the first place.”
I swallow down the regret rising in my throat, my eyes dropping to the pillow. It hurts less, looking away, avoiding the pain in her eyes. But I force myself back to her. “You’ll never know how sorry I am. The guilt I carry—it’s constant. Knowing the things I did that hurt you. And for causing pain I don’t even know about.”
I blink fast, breathing deep, trying to keep it together. “I hurt a lot of people. But nothing’s heavier than knowing I pushed you away.”
Her chest rises with a deep inhale. “And you’ll never know what it was like to witness it. Up close. Watching as everything I knew to be safe and real became the thing I couldn’t trust. The thing that terrified me. I had to stand by and watch the person I love burn everything that mattered most.”
Tears stream down her cheeks, and I nod, taking it in the best I can.
And God, it’s the worst. But in the best way. Just hearing her speak her truth. It means she trusts me, at least a little. Trusts me enough to let it out. To hand me the weight so I can carry it.
I don’t say anything. There’s nothing I could say to make it better. Listening is the best thing I can do right now. I learned that in therapy.
And in this moment? I hear her. I see her. And I’m owning my shit.
I fall to my back, eyes on the ceiling. She scoots closer, resting her head in the crook of my arm, her leg tangling with mine.
I stroke her shoulder, wrapping my arms around her, breathing her in. Just soaking in the moment.
She drags her palm across my abs, then up to my chest, feeling every inch. When she reaches my shoulder, her fingers lift and trace a slow line down my right arm, the one that’s tattooed. Then she reverses the motion. Starts over: torso, chest, shoulder, arm.
Repeat.
My breathing slows. I focus on the rhythm of her touch, silently thanking the universe. For her. For this feeling. Time slows, and I close my eyes. Happy to fall asleep like this.
Right here with my wife.
I don’t know what happens tomorrow…
But she’s touching me.
She’s feeling me.
She’s here.
With me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ALLEY
Don’t askme how I ended up naked, lying on Jensen’s chest, tracing his muscles and tattoo like he’s an Etch A Sketch, but here we are.
Was it a moment of weakness?
Maybe. I don’t know.
But I don’t regret it.
The sex was phenomenal. But it was more than that. I felt connected to him in a way I haven’t in so long.
Even last spring, when he was clean, things were okay, but I was still holding back. I still am, I guess. Only now… it feels different. Maybe it’s because we’ve been spending so much time focusing on the thing that really matters: our friendship.
Could also be the fact that neither of us has had sex in six months.
