“I’m sorry.” His words are a breath, and he leans back, worried eyes studying me. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”
I, for some horrid reason, am instantly on the verge of tears, and I know he can see this because there is agony in his eyes when he sees me swipe at one eye.
“I’ll go. This is on me. I’m…” He shakes his head and his jaw flexes. “I’m so damn sorry.”
He’s up and out of my space in seconds, not just off the couch but gently closing the door behind him and leaving altogether like he assumes I need that. And part of me does.
But part of me needs a minute to collect my thoughts and maybe someone to talk it through with. That healing, growing version of Sam who is begging to be trusted. That girl wants to think through the gut response to something so good and pleasing. That girl wants to have someone tell herit’s okay to want things, and it’s okay to trust a man who is demonstrably good. Someone who, not an hour ago, she was marveling at forbeing so good.
That woman wants to clarify for herself that this—any of this with Grant—is not doing anythingagain,because he is different.
I don’t think goodness is the litmus test most people use when deciding whether they like someone. Attraction and affection come from other places, and of course that’s true for me with Grant.
But when someone has betrayed you, has hurt you, there’s no escaping the desire to find a person who would simply never do that. When I left Andrew, I felt certain I wouldn’t find someone I could trust and be certain of. In theory, most people around us are not violent. Most people don’t abuse others.
I didn’t stop kissing Grant because I’m afraid of him. I stopped kissing him because I’m programmed to mistrust myself, and relearning how to is, evidently, not just a matter of a change of scene.
Mr. Bingley headbutts into my arm, and I pull him into my lap. His purr starts up and I breathe through the frustration with myself, and even with Grant.
Did he have to kiss me tonight? After I felt so raw?
He did give you ample opportunity to say no.
My internal voice is not helping me. And I’m not sure I can chat about this with May. We’ve only had surface-level conversations, and it seems weird to deepen our friendship by asking her how I should’ve responded when her brother kissed me.
Yeah… no. Not great.
But Evie. Evie will give me an honest perspective. She’llunderstand in a way I’m very happy to suspect May cannot because she’s not been hurt in the ways we have.
So despite the temptation to hunker down, binge TV, and ignore the mess of feelings gnawing at me, I text Evie to see if she has time to chat.
“You think he saw you crying?”
Evie is sliding Charlie’s arms into a giant, adorable puffy coat. The March air has warmed up a touch compared to when I first arrived, but it’s still pretty cold in the mornings. She and Charlie walk to work at the clinic since it’s only a few blocks away from her adorable apartment, so they get nice and bundled.
She couldn’t come to me last night, and I didn’t dare chance my donut popping on the way to see her once it got dark, so she invited me to come over before work today. Bless her. I don’t know if I could’ve made it through an entire shift without having at least some outlet for what happened.
“I know he did. And I hate that he did. I wasn’t crying because he kissed me. I was crying because…” I’d been over it so many times.
“Because you wanted to want it. And part of you did. But you’re scared.”
I make a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “I mean, yeah.” My gaze narrows. “Have you experienced something similar?”
“No. Definitely not. But I’ve felt some of that even with my little crush on the man who will not be named.”
I chuckle at that, then take Charlie from her arms so she can load up her bag with her lunch, then his bag with the things he needs.
“Okay, we ready?” She locks the door behind her, and we head out onto the street.
When I left this morning to come to town, the sun was starbursting over top of the mountains and lighting everything in a warm, hopeful glow. I’m relieved it’s a sunny day because I need the atmospheric boost. I want to feel all that good energy, absorb it into me and then let it beam out on all the wonderful people I’ve met here.
But I’m starting to suspect that maybe I’m not ready for that. At least not fully. That maybe, I need to work on directing some of that light back into myself, to let myself heal, so I really can reflect it out more genuinely.
“I need to talk to him. I’m just not sure what to say.”
We’re walking at a snail’s pace, each holding one of Charlie’s hands as he toddles his way to school. He’s wobbly and drooling as he grins wide, balancing between us. It’s adorable, and if I needed a sign that my fractured heart is healing again, I can feel it in this moment with this sweet little family.
“You do. And based on what you’ve said, he’ll have some things to say, too. I’m not sure you need a script in place. But I get wanting to have a plan—Hey! Hi. Happy Monday, Dr. Ryan.”
