Page 72 of Love What's Left
“If I’d known you in that phase of your life, I’d have steered clear of you when you were drinking. I wouldn’t have dated you. But I don’t blame you for having a past,” she says.
“You didn’t feel that way when you married me.”
“Then I was a judgmental bitch and a giant hypocrite.”
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Coming down on you for partying is an asshole move when I didn’t do the same thing to my friends when they did it. Probably because you’re a man. And I’ve done way worse. James forgave me for trying to get Clarissa to leave him. I was trying to protect her, but I was a-awful and judging something I didn’t understand. If she’d listened to me, I’d have r-ruined her life. And we still don’t know what I did to those computers.”
“The computers don’t matter.”
“Yes they do. I was f-fussing about you partying in your twenties? Look at me. I hid or d-destroyed company data. You give me the benefit of the doubt, but m-maybe I’m one of the b-bad guys.”
Her speech has become slower and more stilted the further this conversation goes.
I rub the nape of her neck, attempting to soothe her. “You’re psyching yourself out again. You would never deliberately betray me or our family.” God knows she had ample opportunity when we met. She had the ammunition and hated me. If she didn’t do it then, the idea of it happening years later, aftershe loved me, is absurd. “If I’d been there, I’d have begged you to do anything it took to stay alive. No matter what, it wasn’t a mistakeora betrayal. It was survival, and I approve.”
“We d-don’t know that.”
“I do.” I have to break through her anxiety. “You asked me once if I’d still love you if you were a worm.”
She leans backward and frowns at my abrupt change of topic. “I did what?”
“It was one of those goofy internet things. You expected me to say something funny in response. But that question isn’t about being a worm. The real question is ‘Would you still love me if I were helpless and in need and unable to give anything back in return.’ This feels like the same sort of hypothetical. You’re not some corporate spy or secret villain, but if you were, I’ve still got your back.”
Her expressive face works through a battery of emotions, from doubt to hope, until, finally, she lands on expectancy. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“What did you say when I asked about being a worm?”
“Oh,that.”
She pokes me in the rib cage, and I squirm away.
“Paraphrasing, I said”—I clear my throat and channel my father’s courtroom tone when he gives a closing argument—“if you were transformed into a worm, I’d keep you in a jewel-encrusted box with the most luxurious dirt available. I’d feed you worm-food delicacies hand-prepared by a gardener whose sole purpose was the creation of your cuisine. I’d carry you around with me everywhere I went, and your box would rest on a pillow beside my head at night. People would say, ‘What’s in the box, Gabriel?’ and I’dregalethem with stories of my incredible worm wife and tell them, ‘the love of my life is in this box.’ I would travel vast oceans and arid deserts, devoting theentirety of my existence to the pursuit of a cure. And, finally, when you stood again by my side, Vengeance would become my middle name. I would seek out and destroy the villain who dared to transform my love into a worm and smite the ever-loving fuck out of him with your name falling from my lips so that, as he passed through the portal of hell, he did so knowing he’d burn for eternity for his trespasses against you.”
She covers her smile. “Okay, that’s funny.”
“The only funny part is that you think I’m kidding.”
She moves even closer, her breasts brushing against me, and leans up to press her lips to mine. I revel in the feel and taste of her. My hands drift, and I skim the feminine slope of hips that are gaining back some of the softness she lost. Hands fisted in my shirt, she steps backward toward our bed, dragging me with her.
In one smooth motion, I lift her by the ass and carry her the rest of the way, then lower her to the mattress and settle myself into the V of her spread thighs, a forearm supporting my weight. Never taking my mouth from hers, I slide a hand beneath her T-shirt. The feel of her skin is heaven.
She presses up against me, tunnels her fingers into my hair. The moment her lips met mine, all the blood shot straight to my dick, but somewhere in the recesses of my brain alarms blare:Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Yes, you idiot, that’s what I’m trying to do.
Wrong“fuck.” You have to tell her.
Sydney and I have never had good timing. We’ve always crashed into each other, inevitable as the waves hitting the lava rock breakers. We wreck each other. Shape each other. She’s the promise of a peaceful shore just out of reach, but first, always, we collide.
I stop moving, lift my head to look down into her confused mahogany eyes, take a breath, and drag the words straight from my chest. “I wasn’t just partying. You didn’t trust me in the past because I’m a recovering alcoholic.”
Her expression shutters. “What?”
I ease to the side, and we both sit up. “I destroyed friendships. Let down people who needed me. Lied to people I cared about. Hurt you. Hurt myself. But I’ve been sober for eight years.”