"Jesus, Tera." He pulls me close. "Did you talk to someone about this?"
I nod. "I have sessions with my therapist once a week. We had an emergency session when I walked blindly up the stairs to my apartment and Lincoln found me in the middle of the kitchen, in the dark, vomiting into the trash can."
"I see. You don't have to help with the gallery, Tera. You know that, don't you? We don't expect that from you," he tells me.
"I do. I know that, but I enjoy it and it's the only place I can go without stepping outside. I need that."
"But you don't need the added trauma."
"No, but how will I know what my triggers are if I never experience them?" I wonder aloud.
He kisses my forehead. "Are you hungry?"
"I could eat."
"Then let's eat and, if you're up for it, we can come back to bed. We can just sleep if that's what you want. We can fuck if you want that. Or, if you need space, I'll walk you up to your apartment and say goodnight like a true gentleman," he states.
"You're such a good man, Dante. Why would you want to waste your time with a train wreck like me?"
"You're truly lovely and you're wild between the sheets."
I laugh, as does he.
"Let's eat and go from there," I offer.
He nods, pulls on his boxers, and hands me his five-hundred-dollar button-down shirt to wear.
"So," I say as we head to the kitchen, "what've you got to eat?"
