“I’m having a bad day, Christian.”
Christian’s hand on my hip loosens, caressing my backside before he moves up the flare of my hip and down the slope of my waist beneath my shirt until his hand curls around my ribs. “What can I do to make it better?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you need from me today?” he asks. “How… How do you need me to love you today?”
I blink, a small smile tugging at my lips.
“Therapy,” he explains, and I snort quietly, dropping my forehead to his chest.
“I just need…a quiet, relaxing day I think.”
“Do you want to watch some movies? Order take out and eat a tub of frosting?”
I pick my head up and look into his eyes. I should have kissed him last night and I want to kiss him now. I want to pour myself back into him.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“It’s also supposed to rain today,” he says. “We can grab a book and read out on the patio.”
I nod again.
Christian always had this magic about him. He has always been a contradiction to himself. Intimidating yet soft. Scary looking sometimes, but so comforting. He’s always known the best way to love me on a bad day. And although my bad days are usually, mostly silent, he brings them laughter and gentle conversation about nothing and everything. He’s a giant teddy bear, and it’s all for me.
“Chinese food?”
“Whatever you want, I’ll go out and get it.”
My mouth flinches. He’s staring at me and I’m staring back at him wondering where we would have been if he hadn’t left. It was a fantasy I lived in for a while until I realized how toxic living in a fantasy that won’t happen is.
I put my hand to his stubbled cheek, sweeping across his cheekbone with my thumb. My vision clouds and I know a piece of him is broken, but a piece of me is broken too. If he’s hurt, I’m hurt. “What happened to you, baby?”
“Lana…”
“Let’s just go back to sleep for a bit,” I whisper.
“Baby—”
“It’s fine.”For now.I turn and try to drift across to my side of the bed, but his arms don’t let me.
“No.” He pulls me back into his chest, tighter than before, and nestles his head into my neck like a baby might do. “Please.”
“I’m tired, Christian.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” he rasps. “It’s my fault.”
“Just be quiet and hold me,” I croak, wiping my cheek.
“Don’t cry, baby, please.” He kisses my head. “Please.”
I breathe through the swell of emotion, not wanting it to burst through my ribs like a pipe. Natalia was right—it is my prerogative to be defensive over my heart. But it’s been almosttwo months since he’s been back and he’sshowingme things—sleeping in my driveway for weeks on end, my new sneakers, butespeciallylast night when he came to me for help. I trust that, bit by bit, he will prove to me that I can finallyentirelyforgive him. I am already forgiving him more every day, and I believe him when he says he’s staying.
He’s sober and healthy, and, so far, he’s loving me the way I need to be loved.So far.
Christian isn’t perfect, never has been, and I never expect him to be. I don’twanthim to be because then he wouldn’t be my Christian—the man I’ve loved since I was nineteen.
Soulmates aren’t perfect. People thinksoulmateis synonymous with “perfect match,” but that is so far from wrong. Neither of us are perfect. We fought. We cried. And that’s what is perfect for me.
