Page 242 of Trouble from Abroad
My fingers press into my knee. I trace the seam of my jeans, needing something to do with my hands.
“It’s… different. It’s not comfortable. Or safe. At all. It doesn’t fit in my life, but?—”
I stop. Jaw clenched.
Beck gives a small nod, encouraging but quiet. “But it feels good?”
I nod back. Sharp. I’m afraid if I speak again, I’ll say too much. Jinx it.
“I don’t recognize this feeling,” I manage. “It’s not obligation. Or guilt. Or… routine. It’s something else entirely. It’s chosen,” I say, then stop to catch my breath. “It’s brought back my appetite. For life.”
“And that scares you,” she offers gently.
I huff a weird sound, something between a laugh and a groan. “It fuckingterrifiesme.” I stare at my shoes. “She makes me want to show up, Beck.” The words come out quiet. “Not just go through the motions. Not just be the dependable one. Actually show up. Asmyself.”
Beck shifts, her pompous smile peeking out while she scribbles something down.
“And you like that? You want that?”
My chin dips again. “I do. A lot. I never stopped toconsider that was an option, but she made me realize it is. It’s okay to be me.”
I sit back, heart thudding harder than it should. “I’m forty-three, and I don’t have a fucking clue what love is. Not real love. Not the kind you choose. Not the kind that sees you and stays.”
My voice drops.
“And this? This is so fucking new. So fucking dangerous.”
I press a hand to my chest, just for a second, trying to hold something in. Too late. I’m too far gone now.
“But I think I want her. God help me, I think I want her.” Maybe the reason it’s hitting me so fast is because I’d been empty for such a long time. I shake my head again, softer this time. “Fuck it. This isn’t leaving this room anyway.” I glance up. Meet Beck’s eyes. “I want her, Beck. Bad.”
Not out of penance. Not to fix a story. Because it’sher.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
mia
What the fuckwas I thinking? Seriously,what?! I scream at myself internally—though, let’s be honest, I’m one minor inconvenience away from doing it out loud—while assaulting the poor, unsuspecting coffee machine in the waiting room.
I jab every button, and foam spews from somewhere it shouldn’t. Perfect. That’ll do. We’re both having breakdowns.
I curse myself under my breath and spiral further down the mentally unstable waterslide I’ve been on since he walked through his psychologist’s door.
Because of course he’s in there talking about his ex.
What else would he be doing? He’s unpacking the trauma of his dead relationship, obviously. Processing the fact that the last woman he loved cheated on him and left him emotionally wrecked with a kid to raise on his own, and a house full of memories.
And me? Ha-ha. I thought it would be cute—cute—to book a hotel room for sex straight after this.
Great job, Mia. Truly inspired. A+ for emotional sensitivity.
He’s inside, unearthing heartbreak, and I’m out here unwedging way-too-revealing lingerie from my ass, trying to pick between matte lipstick for visual impact, or creamy for a messy performance.
I drop in my chair, defeated, emotional support espresso denied. There’s no one besides me, but my insecurities are crowding me to the point where I’m feeling claustrophobic.
What if he’s still thinking about her when he’s with me?
What if I can’t make him forget?
