“Yeah, but you’ve always come to do them anyway.”
“Oh.” I have no idea what to say. How to explain my absence.
It will sound quite pathetic to explain I feel like a failure and want to minimize the chances of being one again today.
I want him to be impressed by me. I want him to be happy to have me as a wife.
It’s been more than a month. I should be doing better than this.
He doesn’t continue the conversation, so we eat in silence.
It feels terrible. Much worse than a quiet breakfast with Mason usually feels. And it’s not only coming from me. It’s coming from him too. I can sense it.
He’s unhappy.
And it’s my fault.
If he were Annabelle, I would say something. Ask her about her feelings and explain mine. If he were Lorraine or Aria, I would add it to the massive pile of grievances and shrug it off.
But this is Mason. I have no experience with someone like him. I have no experience with this kind of relationship.
Marrying him was the best thing to ever happen to me, and if I do something wrong that causes him to end it, whatever decent life I might have had will be effectually destroyed.
My stewing on all these questions lasts until Mason finishes his meal. I haven’t been able to get down more than half my food, so I pass my plate over to him to finish.
He does without speaking. His focus is mostly down on his food, but he’ll dart his gaze up every few minutes to give my face a quick check.
I have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking.
I thought I was understanding him better, but I’m not. He’s a closed book again now. And my life depends on reading him correctly so I can give him what he wants.
The truth hits me so hard I start shaking. Have to fight making it visible.
Then emotion swells in my throat and in my eyes. It’s terrible, but I’m not going to fall apart. I’mnot.
I’m so committed to this internal resolution that I’m shocked when a couple of big tears slide out of my eyes without warning and plop right down on the table surface.
I gasp and jerk my head up.
Mason is staring at me. He saw them.
With a whimper, I try to tell him I’m sorry. For everything. If I have to beg him to give me another chance, I will.
Before I can get a word out, he does.
“I’m sorry!” he exclaims, appearing surprised by his own outburst.
“W-what?” I swipe away a couple more tears.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I feel like shit about the whole thing, and now you’re so scared of me you’re crying about it. I promise I’ll never do it again.” He sucks in a ragged breath. “Please don’t leave me.”
“W-what?” I say again, my stomach roiling with confusion now more than fear. “You’re sorry?”
“Course I’m sorry! Did you think I wanted to do that to you last night? I thought you were okay. I thought you were into it.”
“I was… I wanted to do that. You didn’t hurt me.”
“Yes, I fucking did. I could see it plain as day afterward. Then you ran away from me, and today you’ll barely look at me. I know I fucked up, but it wasn’t ’cause I’m okay with acting like that. I was… I got… carried away. And I thought the way you were talking meant you wanted it like that.”
