Chapter 45
The sun shines down on me as I sit on the balcony off Emmett’s living room. I’m bundled in one of his hoodies and it’s big enough that I can pull my knees up under it, tucking them in close to my body. My laptop sits in front of me on the table, along with my third cup of coffee for the day.
It’s unusually warm for the end of February, and the sun’s rays feel glorious on my face. I left the patio door open to let the fresh air into the penthouse, too, hoping to capture this little tease of spring.
I decided to work from home today to take advantage of the sun. I’m sure Emmett would have stayed with me had he not had a client meeting, but I’m actually grateful for the solitude.
Lately, it’s been feeling like my exterior is cracking away, piece by piece. The brave face I put on everyday crumbling around me and turning to dust, only to be scattered by the wind so that I can never put myself back together again.
And I’m scared of what I’ll see when that facade is completely gone. I’m scared of the woman that’s underneath. The woman who bears a brand of her ex and is a shell of her former self.
A woman I’m not sure Emmett could truly want if he saw the real me.
My therapist says it’s normal to feel like a complete fucking mess. She also tells me I shouldn’t hide what I’m feeling, but I still do. Apparently, she doesn’t believe in the whole ‘fake it till you make it’ thing–at least not in this sense.
Granted, I’m not sure I believe it anymore either.
I thought if I just pretended everything was okay, if I went back to my normal life and picked up my usual routine, eventually I would feel normal again. That I’d slot back into the life I had and things would just fix themselves.
But that hasn’t been the case, and I find it harder and harder every day to want to go on.
Insecurity festers inside of me like a disease. All the doubt I’ve ever had about myself, about my life, about Emmett, amplified to an excruciating level.
My body has healed, but my mind is far from it.
I turned the TV on a couple weeks ago for background noise as I made dinner. It was a rerun of Law Order. When I realized it was about a woman who’d been raped, I had a panic attack and locked myself in the bathroom. Emmett broke the door to get in. I haven’t turned on the TV since.
My therapist said it’s a common reaction to triggering stimuli after a traumatic event, and we proceeded to discuss triggers and coping techniques. I’m not sure it’s helped.
Last week, while we were at work, I joined Emmett in his office for lunch. He pulled a knife out of his desk to open some mail. It was the same style as the one Trevor used when he carved up my thighs. It immediately took me back to that basement, and I could feel Trevor on top of me. I could feel every slice of his blade into my skin. I lost control of my breathing, my body shaking so badly that Emmett drove me home and stayed with me for the rest of the day.
The next morning, as Emmett and I were walking from his car into the office, I thought about throwing myself into oncoming traffic, just to get the memories in my head to stop.
I didn’t tell my therapist about that one.
It feels like I have to tip-toe around myself, careful to avoid anything that might set me off, so I can’t imagine how Emmett must feel. All I do know is that it makes me feel like an incredibly large burden that he shouldn’t have to be saddled with.
He didn’t ask for any of this. He didn’t ask for a mentally unstable girlfriend. A girlfriend who can hardly even stand being outside the house right now for fear I’ll have a complete breakdown. A girlfriend who is supposed to be working for him, yet I’ve hardly made a dent in any of the projects he and Jax have given me, my mind unable to focus. A girlfriend he killed for, something that can never be undone, a mark on his soul that will follow him to death.
And a girlfriend who is so afraid of being intimate again, afraid that I”ll freak out at his touch, that I’m too scared to initiate anything. Even though a part of me craves his comfort so badly, for him to take me to that place of ecstasy where I can forget everything.
But that’s not the entire truth of it either. I’m also afraid of his reaction. Will he reject me? Will he look at Trevor’s name on my back and feel disgust? Other than holding me at night and kissing me, he hasn’t asked for more, and that’s not really his style. He’s the type of man who takes what he wants. Who goes after it with an intense fervor that’s overwhelming. It’s how it always was between us before. Hot and feverish and wild–consuming us whole.
My therapist tells me to ask him about it. I think her belief is that he’s being respectful of my space.
My sinking suspicion is that he’s no longer attracted to me.
And I don”t even blame him. Trevor’s name is carved into my flesh and my legs are a mess of ugly scars. Not to mention Trevor violated every part of me, in every way he could, all those weeks he had me locked up.
I swipe at a stray tear as it runs down my cheek.
“What’s wrong?” Emmett’s voice comes from behind me, gentle and full of concern. I hadn’t heard him come home.
Twisting in my chair, I find him leaning against the patio frame, his tie undone and sleeves rolled up, tattoos rippling as his forearms flex. He never did get rid of the beard, though it’s trimmed and styled now, and he’s every bit the gorgeous, dark bad boy I fell for. But his eyes hold something in them now that wasn’t there before. Something… softer.
Or maybe tired.
“Nothing,” I tell him under my breath as I turn to look back out over the city.
He comes to sit in the chair beside me, and I can feel his gaze on the side of my face. “That was either a happy tear, or a sad tear,” he says, reaching out to massage the back of my neck. “But I’m guessing since you don’t want to tell me about it, it’s a sad tear.”
Damn him and his understanding. This would almost be easier if he was just mean to me. Kick me out and tell me to never contact him again.
I don’t deserve him.
Snaking my hands into the front pocket of my sweater, I pull my legs even closer to myself.
‘He’s not a mind reader, Riley.’ My therapist”s words swirl through my head. ‘You have to talk to Emmett about your concerns, or the guilt will continue to eat you up.’
I let out a long, steadying breath. “I feel like a mess of puzzle pieces,” I tell him, trying to figure out how the hell to even start explaining everything I feel right now. “Some are broken. Some are missing. Some aren’t even from the same puzzle. And all these pieces are thrown into a big pile, waiting for me to put them back together. To put my life back together.” His fingers continue rubbing gentle circles on the back of my neck.
New tears escape my eyes and he brushes them away with his thumb, still listening intently.
“How can I ever be whole again when the pieces no longer fit together?” I force myself to look at him. “I don’t know who I am anymore, Emmett. I don’t know if I ever will.”
His dark eyes burn into mine, and he reaches into my pocket, pulling out my hand and cradling it in both of his. “I know exactly who you are.” He raises my hand to his mouth, his lips grazing across my knuckles. “You’re mine. My heart. My soul. My life. My everything.”
“How can you say that when I’m such a burden? When I don’t even know if I have the strength to keep going. Every day just gets harder and harder.”
“You don’t have to do this on your own.” He shifts forward in his chair and angles himself toward me. “Don’t close me out. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on in your head. Tell me your worries and your fears.” He runs a knuckle down my leg. “Your weakness is my strength. And I’ll carry you when you can’t do it yourself.”
“But what if you can’t? What if it’s too much?” I ask, my throat thick with emotion.
He squeezes my hand tight in his again. “Then I’ll hold your hand and walk beside you through the dark. Because wherever you go, I’ll go with you. You’ll never be alone, Riley. No matter how dark it seems, no matter how tired you feel, how scared you are, how much you want to give up–I’ll be right there with you. And I’ll never let you go.”
He rises, grabbing my hands to pull me with him. My legs slide out from under my sweater, and then he’s pulling me tight to his chest. One hand moves to the back of my head, gently grasping my hair and titling my head back, forcing me to look up at him.
“I love you,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “Don’t ever think otherwise.”
He holds me close, cradling my head against his chest as my tears soak through his shirt.
But they’re not all sad this time. At least a few of them are happy tears.