I know part of the reason is because Nico isn’t sleeping beside me. Though I stand by my decision not to let him back in my bed, it isn’t easy. I spent most of the night lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about our relationship.
“Can’t sleep?” His deep voice startles me out of my thoughts.
I turn to face my husband. His disheveled hair is standing up on his head. His plaid sleep pants hanging low on his hips showing off that flat stomach and the deep U shape of his pectoral muscles. He’s barefoot and shirtless, but he’s wearing a robe that’s hanging open. The Saint Michael tattoo on his chest and stomach catches my eye.
I shake my head and turn away from him. “So many signs that I missed.” I think about how I saw that tattoo and never put it together that he was Saint.
“The only sign you needed to see was how much I wanted you. Nothing else mattered.”
Turning my gaze back to him, I watch as he leans against the door frame. Once again, I wish I could just turn my feelings off. I shouldn’t care anything about this man. Not after what he did. Yet, all I can think about is what deep trauma had him terrified in his office that day.
I go back to stirring my tea. Taking the bag out of the cup, I place it on the napkin beside me. Turning to him, I lean my hip on the counter and bring the tea up to my lips for a sip.
The kitchen is silent as we both watch each other. I’m wearing my usual sleep set of a silk camisole and matching shorts. My curls are in ten to fifteen braids tucked under a bright pink bonnet. I look a mess. However, the way his eyes are eating me up, you would think I was all dressed up in lingerie.
After allowing a beat of silence to pass, I finally speak. “Are you ready to talk to me about what trauma triggered you the other day?”
Nico’s entire body goes completely still. Where there was once sexual desire that painted his features, now there is only shock. The moment passes, and his body relaxes. His face goes neutral. He pushes away from the door frame and goes over tothe cupboards. He grabs a mug and brings it over to the stove where the kettle is.
“I don’t have any trauma.” His back is to me as he places a tea bag in his mug and pours the still hot water into his cup.
I scoff. “Right. I don’t know why I thought the man who only knows how to lie to me would actually tell me the truth.”
He spins around, his brows furrowed. “Don’t do that. Don’t make up issues that aren’t there. I’ve never lied to you about my past.”
“Of course, there’s no need to lie because you just don’t tell me anything.”
“I’ve told you what’s important.”
Placing my cup down on the marble countertop, I lean forward, placing my palms down. “Where did you go to middle school, Nico?”
His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t speak. I keep going.
“What about high school? Huh? What does Marissa look like? Hell, what’s her last name?”
He stares back at me, not saying a word.
“Exactly.” I push up from the counter. “You talk about how much you love me, but you don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” he grits.
“Loving me is allowing me in. It’s letting me see the real you, no matter how ugly and messed up the truth is.”
He’s shaking his head as I speak. “You don’t need to know that. All you need to know is that I love you. I will die for you, Tiffany. For you and Noah, I will destroy this fucking world. Everything else is irrelevant.”
I believe he thought that was all it took. I also believed that he would do all the things he just mentioned. However, that isn’t what makes love work. I can never truly love him if I don’t know him.
“I need more,” I say.
He looks away, running his hands over his head.
“My past is in my past for a reason. I can’t give you that.”
When those dark brown eyes look back at me, I see the hurt and the fear staring at me through his gaze. Whatever he is hiding is big and painful. And maybe he is even afraid or ashamed of it. I understand not wanting to share your most hurtful trauma with a stranger. However, you can’t say you love someone and want to be with them and not share a part of you that made you who you are.
He knows everything about me. My issues with my mother, my fears from my childhood, even the things I’m embarrassed by, like how I stayed with Marcus even after all the cheating. He can’t have all of me yet give so little of him.
Shrugging, I say, “Then I can’t be with you.”
