He’s successful. Powerful. People respect him. They want toknowhim.
He doesn’t need me the way I need him.
We’re so different on the outside.
He’s organized and doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks.
I’m messy and care too much.
But at our core? We’re the same.
Expectations. Shame. Darkness. Our history embedded into us like stitching in a quilt.
So here I am, ten minutes out from Zermatt, with my security blanket.
My best friend.
My husband.
The last time we were here was right before our last and final breakup.
It was fun. Easy. Romantic.
You’d never know it by looking at Matt, but he’s romantic as hell. Thoughtful. So good at creating special moments.
We came right before Christmas. There was snow everywhere and it was freezing. We spent our days skiing on the mountain, and our nights dressed up and out for dinner. But the later hours were my favorite. We spent them in front of the fireplace, laughing, naked, wrapped in a sea of blankets, sipping champagne and eating chocolates and strawberries.
My chest flutters.
God, I miss that.
He asked me to move in again.
I finally said yes.
We even talked about getting married.
Then we came home.
And everything was slowly ripped away.
The beginning of the end.
His dad. My dad. His mom.
My dad had gotten out of prison a year earlier, and Matt and I went to a charity event together. His parents were there.
His dad was drunk and ended up making a pass at me. He grabbed my ass and whispered something about being more experienced in bed than Matt. How he could please me better. Something sick like that.
He wouldn’t let up. I was uncomfortable, and it started drawing attention. A crowd. A scene.
Matt noticed from across the room and made his way over fast, fury in his eyes.
He kept his cool, though.
Because that’s Matt. Level-headed. Smart.
He knew where he was.
