Page 72 of Sweet Heart

“Maria, I didn’t realize this meant so much to you. If I had known, I would’ve asked.”

Her eyes dart up to me, still wet from her tears but sharp as a hawk’s. Her lips are pressed together now, and her nostrils flare. Her eyes rake over me, and I’ve never felt this bare, this vulnerable.

“Would you?”

“Yes.” I don’t waver.

“I…” She squeezes her eyes closed and sucks in a breath with a sharp hiss. “I thought you wanted to—”

She stops herself and opens her eyes to look at me. I can only wait while she decides whether she’ll be open with me or lie and tell me it doesn’t matter.

“…hide me.”

I can barely hear the words, but the flash of hurt on her face tells me everything I need to know.

“Hide you,” I repeat, appalled by the words alone. “I would never—”

My voice turns sharp, and I snap my jaw shut before I can say anything that would damage us. My stomach clenches so violently that I have to suppress the urge to hurl. A clammy sheen forms on my neck and forehead, and my fingers twitch at my sides.

I raise my eyes to meet Mary’s again. She stares at me with something resembling shock. Her eyes are wide, her lips slightly parted, and there is a deep crease on her forehead. It’s as if she only now realizes the implication of her words, or at least the effect they have on me.

“I am not perfect. I never claimed to be,” I grit out. “What I did to you… how I sent you away… it was inexcusable.”

I pause to look at her. Mary is wobbling on her feet, her sunken eyes wide with panic. Even now, she doesn’t…

“I would never weaponize love,” I hiss this time, angrier at myself than at the implications. “Nunca.”

My fist hits the door beside us, and we both flinch at the sound. I retreat instantly, stumbling back two steps, holding my hand to my chest as if I need to keep it back.

“Mary, I—”

Her whole face falls and she shakes her head before darting toward me. She grabs my shoulders and pulls me into her, mirroring the hold I had on her only moments earlier.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Cat. Please forgive me. Please, I’m sorry.”

The stream of apologies floods out of her in a panicked rush, and I am not sure if they are meant to soothe her or to reconnect us. It doesn’t matter. All I want is for her pain to stop.

“Shhh, it’s okay, you’re safe.”

I whisper the words close to her ear, and I can feel her body ripple in response. My lips find her temple, and I press them there, warm and soft.

“I’ve got you,” I repeat, and this time she nods against me, accepting the offering.

By the time we have both calmed down, Mary is exhausted. Instead of guiding her to the couch, I lead her toward the bathroom, where I slowly undress her. My fingers are careful, each movement a question that she keeps answering with a yes. I run the water before I let her step under it, then discard my own clothes so that I can follow her. She instantly folds into me again, seemingly unable to let me go.

I know she is hurting and ,more than anything else, scared. This is our first miscommunication since we got together. And even though I’ve not had many relationships, I know that this is a defining moment, one in which people can make or break their connection.

The water covers our skin, and we are pressed slickly against each other. The silky touch of it is oddly soothing. I run my fingers through her tangled hair and dip forward to kiss her. Not one meant to devour her, or to reestablish that she is mine. No, this kiss is meant to sink into my own breaking heart while letting her be the one to hold it.

Mary presses her forehead against mine when we break away, and she runs her thumb over the muscles in my neck. Only now do I realize how tense they are, popping out like bundles of wire. I close my eyes and lean into her soft touch. A tear slips from my eye, followed by another, and another. I quietly break into pieces in the safety of her arms, and she holds me through every single sob.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry.”

Her voice shakes even though her hands move steadily over my back now. There is only truth in them. I know psychology. I am aware that her response was rooted in a past that has nothing to do with me, but it still hurts.

“We have been together for a little over four months,” I say as my voice cracks on the words. “That is too short for you to—” My stomach constricts and I flinch. “To trust me like that.”

Her inhale is small but audible, and she instantly leans back. She shakes her head as if she can undo the words that way.