Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, making me peek down at her head in surprise. “. . . ish.”
I smile into her hair. “Me too.” That’s it. We’re both sorry. It’s a good start. But now she’s back where she should be—and I’m not consumed by the fact that she walked out on me, that I was alone, feeling hopeless and lost—I have space in my mind to feel sad about what led us here. I’m absolutely gutted she’s not pregnant. Gutted. It’s an added layer of worry and something I need to look into. I’m . . . broken.
The silence stretches, Ava’s breathing shifting frequently from deep to shallow. She’s clammy and a little shaky. It’s not nice. “What are you thinking?” I ask.
“I’m thinking we can’t go on like this. It’s not good for you.”
Me? I’m fine. Probably infertile, but I’m fine. Ava, however, is becoming irrational. Reactive. “I don’t care about me.”
“What are we going to do?”
That’s a good question. I am fully aware that our relationship is volatile. I know my insecurities are a contributing factor to that. Problem is, I’m a man who has lost everything I’ve ever loved, and now I have Ava, I’ve become quite . . . attached to her. No man loves harder than a man who needs it returned. Or a man who’s hiding endless pain. I don’t want to be that broken man for Ava, but it’s clear that by trying to be strong and dependable, I’ve become unbalanced.
I get Ava onto her back and lie on top of her, snuggling between her boobs. “I don’t know,” I whisper, kissing the center of her chest. “But I do know how much I love you.”
“Why did you do it?” she asks quietly, making me pause, breathing her skin in. Why? Because I was desperate. Five days without her felt like I relived the past twenty years in slow motion, except without the usual distractions from my misery.
I look up at her, hating the hurt I see in her eyes. “Because I love you. Everything is because I love you.” My craziness, my protectiveness, my extreme . . . everything.
“You treat me like a slapper,” she says with a frown. Oh? She’s talking about last night? Not the fact I stole her pills? “Fuck me in the toilet of a bar with no words,” she goes on. “And then walk out to go and feel up another woman?” The frown’s turned into a mild scowl. It’s warranted. Because I fucked her like she meant nothing. I didn’t mean to. I only meant to prove that no matter how hard she tries, she will always gravitate toward me. Respond to me. Need me. “Did you do that because you love me?”
“I was trying to prove a point.” And it backfired. All I’ve done is make her feel cheap and forced an epic retaliation. “And watch your mouth,” I grumble.
“No, Jesse,” she retorts. “You were trying to be a wanker.” Ouch. She wriggles, trying to free herself, and panic grabs me. She’s going to leave again? Not over the pills, but over me fucking her? “I need a shower,” she says as I beg her with sorry eyes not to go. I’m given an expectant glare in return. I’ll stop her this time, I swear. Hopefully not with force.
Reluctantly, I move off her, holding my breath as she gets up, wondering which way she’ll go.
The bathroom.
She closes the door, and I exhale my relief, hearing the tap run, followed soon after by the shower.
Make it right.
“How?”
Patience.
Hmmm. It’s not one of my finest qualities. I get up and go to the door, pushing it open gently, seeing her under the spray. I could go back at her. Point out all her misdemeanors. But I won’t.
Grovel.
I push off my boxers and step into the stall, putting my front to her back, reaching round to claim the sponge. “Let me,” I say, stroking across her wet tummy. I apply pressure, encouraging her to face me, and drop to my knees, starting to look after her.
Quiet. Patient.
And she lets me, because she knows I need this element of our relationship and also because, despite her fierce independence, she likes me taking care of her. I feel everything inside of me settle and silently thank her for giving me what I need in our chaos. Does she get that from me? Does she ever settle when I care for her? Does this bring her calm throughout her storm?
I can hear her mind racing. Hear the endless questions. Possibly not. “Where have you been since Monday?” she asks, and I smile at her thigh as I swipe the sponge across her skin.
“In hell,” I whisper, watching the water wash away the suds. “You left me, Ava.”
“Where were you?”
“I was trying to give you space.” I continue with my task, cleaning her, taking my time, savoring it, making up for the days I’ve lost. “I realize how I am with you,” I whisper. “And I wish I could stop myself, I really do.” God, I’ve tried. I’ve had endless conversations with myself over it. Listened to the people I love, those who are alive and those who are not. “But I can’t.”