Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
He let go of a long, heavy breath that was deeper than a sigh. “No. I did, once upon a time. Just not anymore.” He picked up the controller and started the movie we’d planned to watch when we sat down.
The opening credits rang out, and Damien smiled at me.
But this wasn’t the smile I was used to.
This was shallow and barely-there, singing with the sadness he’d concealed from his voice.
Whatever had stopped him trusting people, it ran deep. Maybe right down to his very bones where he’d never be able to get rid of it.
As I ran my gaze over his strong portrait, lingering a little too long on his full lips and stubbled jaw, the realization came at me like a bullet.
Instantly. Clearly. Silently.
For what it was worth, for all that it mattered…Damien and I were a hell of a lot more alike than I’d ever truly believed.
***
I’d barely watched any of the movie. Not because I didn’t care, but because I struggled to make myself care about it. I’d glanced at him the entire time, and even now, with it almost done, I was looking at him again.
He knew it. He had to know it. I’d stared at him while we ate pizza and while he poured drinks. I’d stared as he’d sat back down. As he’d left for the bathroom. As he’d scratched the side of his nose.
Like I could stare at him hard enough and he’d tell me everything. He’d tell me all the answers to the questions I was too afraid to ask.
Maybe it was time to be brave. He trusted me—there was a whole lot more to this than met the eye. At least, that’s what I believed. That was what I wanted to believe.
What I had to believe.
So, I did it. As I traced my gaze across the silver-white scar that seemed to explode with light every time the movie flashed through the darkness, I asked the one thing I wanted to know more than anything.
“How did you get it?” The volume of my question was barely above a whisper, but that was all it needed to be. He’d heard me, even through the bass booms of the TV.
“Get what?” he asked weakly, not looking at me.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I swung my legs down from his lap and crawled across the large sofa until I was next to him.
He sat frozen as I reached up.
The moment my fingertip touched the edge of the scar, he winced.
“I don’t…” He covered the side of his face with his hand. “I don’t really think about it anymore. I don’t notice it. It’s been there long enough now.”
“But why? How?”
“Dahlia.”
“Sorry.” The sharper way he’d said my name had me shuffling back to where I’d been sitting a few minutes ago.
If there was any wonder into why I was afraid to ask questions, I’d just wiped it out. That—the sharp, almost venomous way he responded when I’d gone too far. It was as if he were slamming the door down on the way he really felt.
I knew the method well. Shut it out. Take it out on another person.
I’d coped that way enough times in my life.
I wished it didn’t hurt. Wished it didn’t slice through me in the way it was but shouldn’t have.
It stung.
Like hell.
It obviously showed on my face, because even though I wasn’t looking at him, he sighed and moved closer to me.
“Dahlia,” he said softly, brushing my hair from my face. “Damn it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset.”
“Then, I’d love to play you at poker.”
I pursed my lips and faced him. “I’m not upset,” I half-lied. “It’s obviously something you don’t want to talk about, and I get it. I used to push people away when it hurt too much, too.”
“You think I’m pushing you away?” He arched his eyebrows. “By not sharing how I got the damn thing?”
“No. You’re pushing me away with your harsh response. You do it every time.” I shifted and faced him. “It’s like you’re afraid to talk about the things that hurt you. What are you so scared of? It’s not going to make it hurt more.”
“Then what will it do? Take away the pain like it’s a fucking bribe?”
“Make you face up to it! Stop you burying it away where you can’t live your life because it’s consuming.”
He shook his head. “I’m not having a fucking therapy session with you, Dahlia. If I wanted to talk about my life, I’d pay some shrink an extortionate amount of money to tell me all the things that are wrong with my refusal to talk about it.”
“You don’t need to. I’ll do it for you. You’ll never move on. You’ll never be able to be happy because you’ll always be caught up in it.”