Page 96 of The Downside of Love
I nod. “He comes home, barely says anything to me, and opens up a bottle of Scotch. I’ve been too nervous to say anything, because I know he’s pretty upset over what his dad said to him, but he won’t even look at me, Ryan. He won’t touch me. He barely even comes near me, and when we go to sleep, he turns away from me.” I bite my bottom lip, trying to stop it from trembling. “I don’t know what to do. I can see him spiraling again, and I have no clue how to catch him.”I don’t even know if he loves me anymore.
“Have you tried talking to him?”
I shake my head. “Every time I try to say something, he shuts me down, says he’s too tired or goes on a walk. I know where he’s walking to. He comes home smelling like alcohol. I’m scared, Ryan. I’m afraid—” My throat chokes up on me as I try to voice my ever-present fear. She reaches out her hand and squeezes mine. “I’m afraid he’s going to break up with me, that whatever his dad said to him is spinning around and taking root in his mind. I can see it. Every time he looks at me, he’s convincing himself of something, like we shouldn’t be together.”
“You need to talk to him, Rory. After spending a lot of time with Stryder, I think we both recognize that behind the façade of a strong man is a broken and shattered boy, unsure of himself and desperate to be a part of something. He needs you to help him through this.”
But how can I help him when he keeps turning away from me?
“I know. I just wish I knew how to get to him.”
“Just be honest with him. Tell him your fears and knock a little sense into him. Be tough but understanding, like you always are.”
I take a sip of my water, trying to determine what I’m going to say to him as fear prickles the back of my neck. “Do you . . . do you think we’re going to be okay?”
Without skipping a beat, Ryan says, “I know you will.”
If only I could feel that confident. My heart is breaking.
* * *
It’s eight-thirty, and I’ve yet to hear from Stryder. I made some mac and cheese for us both, ate alone, and put the leftovers in the fridge. I’ve sent him three texts, asking when he’ll be home, and I’m now pacing back and forth in our apartment, trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to say to him when he does get home.
And the worst part about all of this is that his car is parked on the street. I saw him park, but instead of coming upstairs to me, he walked in the opposite direction.
I can see it in his eyes, his self-worth diminishing with each passing day, and I don’t know how to stop it.
Where the hell is he?
I reach for my phone to text him when I hear someone walking up the apartment stairs.
Finally.
I quickly go to the bed where I sit cross-legged and wait for him.
The door handle twists slowly and he walks in, head down, hand gripping his cap, his boots scuffing the floor.
He looks up and starts shedding his uniform, his movements rigid but not sloppy. Makes me think that maybe he isn’t drunk. Hopefully.
My throat feels dry, when I say, “Hey.”
He presses his hand against the wall, balancing himself as he takes his boots off by the heel. “Hey baby,” he answers, keeping his eyes focused on his shoes. Once his shoes are discarded, he walks toward the bathroom without sparing me a glance. I listen intently as he goes to the toilet, washes his hands, and brushes his teeth. Going to bed already? Did he even eat dinner?
My stomach turns and twists into knots as I wait for him to emerge, my mind running rampant as I try to figure out what to say. I want to be sensitive, because I know he’s probably beating himself up mentally to be in such a state, but I’m also mad at him. This is us. Without even talking to me, he’s throwing it away because of something his dad said.
I want him to talk to me rather than run away, and I think that’s what I’m going to try to convey to him.
Hands resting in my lap, I wait impatiently for him to wrap up.
The light switches off.
The door opens.
Stryder walks into the living room wearing nothing but boxer briefs, his muscular body rippling as he comes toward me. I miss him so much. I miss touching him and kissing him and making love with him. I miss his sexy laugh in my ear when we’re intimate. I miss his commanding voice, telling me how he wants me. I miss the graze of his five o’clock shadow against my inner thighs. And I miss him, my best friend, the guy I can talk to about anything, the guy who loves nothing more than to turn off the TV and play a card game with me.
When he reaches the bed, he looks me up and down, eyeing my tank top with no bra, and licks his lips. Leaning forward, he grips my chin and places a soft kiss against my lips. It’s so sweet, so like the man he was a week ago, that the small amount of contact brings tears to my eyes.
Concern laces his brow when he pulls away and sees a tear drip down my cheek. Immediately his face falls and he scoops me into his arms, bringing me onto his lap as he rests against the headboard of the bed.
