Chapter 37
Riley
He looks like a beaten puppy as he rounds the end of the sofa and takes a seat right beside me, so close that our knees are touching.
"I have a million things running through my head with what that look on your face could mean, but instead of jumping to conclusions, I'm just going to sit here and let you explain it to me." He pulls in a deep breath. "And when you do, explain it like a three-year-old. I don't want any crossed lines or chance for misinterpretation."
"You've given me a lot to think about."
"Maybe take a chance and don't overanalyze anything. Just tell me how you feel," he urges.
"I feel exhausted with not knowing what this is between us."
I hold up a hand to silence him when he opens his mouth to speak.
"If we're laying it all out there, then let me speak."
I release a long, slow breath. Honesty is great. Telling the truth is great, but sometimes, in doing so, you discover things you don't want to know, things that prevent you from pretending everything is fine when it really isn't, but I've lost too much sleep. If things don't work out between the two of us, then I'd like to know that now so I can start the process of moving forward.
He has told me he finds me attractive, and that's wonderful, but that doesn't mean he wants me forever or even wants to attempt to build a life with me.
"I pined for you the rest of that summer. I just knew when the school year started, I was going to be yours. I tried to catch you at the park. I can't count the number of times I drove past your house, hoping to catch you outside. I didn't feel assaulted. When school started back up and you couldn't even look in my direction, I felt like I'd been pranked. I felt like the punchline of a joke between you and your friends."
I pause, needing a moment because my voice is growing weak with emotion.
"I had written your name a million times in my notebooks and drawn big red hearts around it."
My cheeks heat with the girly confession.
"I convinced myself that even if you came to me and wanted a secret relationship because you were embarrassed about my size, I liked you enough that I would've been okay with it."
"There's nothing okay about that," he mutters.
"I know that now, but it took years of therapy to get there."
"You had to go to therapy?"
I shrug. "All of us could use a little therapy."
"Riley, that's—"
"I thought I was going to need to make another appointment in the bar weeks ago when you pretended like you'd never laid eyes on me before. My brain couldn't handle the fact that you were such a big part of my teenage years, and I didn't mean anything to you."
"You've always meant something to me, Riley."
I give him a weak smile. Saying it now doesn't change how it made me feel back then, and I have a right to those emotions, no matter what his intentions or reasons for ignoring me were.
"Then you asked me to get out of there, and I was sixteen again, being paid attention by the hottest guy in the bar. We had a great night."
"The best," he interjects.
"Then you pulled that shit by asking me if I wanted a cab or to walk home," I remind him.
"It seems I've always been an asshole," he mutters.
"Why did you do it?" I ask, needing to know the answer.
"I was feeling more for you than I should've after only an hour of your time. I felt vulnerable, and if I made you mad, then I didn't have to deal with my own feelings."
"That's... honest," I mutter. "But then you called me to help with the meal for the McGees, and then I nearly burned down your house."
"I take full responsibility for that," he rushes to say. "And I owe you an apology for getting mad. I was mad at myself for not being able to control the way my body responds to yours. It put me right back in that closet, touching you without permission."
"I was agreeable that night at your house, and once again, the closet thing was more inexperience rather than not wanting it to happen."
"I think a lot of shit would've been solved if we'd actually talked to each other."
"You think?" I scoff.
"You took off yesterday," he says.
"I didn't want you to tell me we couldn't continue."
A crease forms between his eyebrows. "Couldn't continue? I fucking claimed you, Riley. I want you more than I've ever wanted anyone in my life. Despite how I acted in high school, my attraction to you has never waned. Do you know how many hours I've laid awake in your guest bedroom fighting the urge to climb into your bed?"
"This can't be all about sex, Mac. I need more than that. I deserve more than that."
"Is that what you think it is?"
"Isn't it?" I add, a hint of attitude coming out in my tone.
"No," he answers quickly. "I mean, the sex with you is out of this world, but I just want you near me. I want your skin touching mine. I want our hearts to regulate so that they pound at the same rate. I want your hands on my back when we shower. I want to smile at you from across the breakfast table. I want a fucking life with you, Riley, and it terrifies me."
I shake my head, certain that I'm hearing things wrong. There's no way this man is telling me that he wants the same things I've wanted from him all these years.
"My heart is telling me to jump," I confess. "But my head is telling me that you're going to hurt me."
He scoots in a little closer and I immediately drop my eyes to my lap.
"Look at me," he urges, and it takes a few breaths before I can lift my gaze to his. "I love you, so don't take this the wrong way, but you may need a few more sessions with that therapist."
"What?"
"You said we all need a little therapy—"
"No," I snap. "The other part."
"I love you."
The words roll off his tongue as if he's been saying them to me his entire life, but that doesn't stop the tremble that sets into my hands.
"Does that freak you out to hear them as much as it freaks me out to say them?"
"A little," I confess.
"I don't use the words lightly," he assures me.
Tears burn my eyes briefly before cresting and running down my cheeks .
"And I've managed somehow to fuck this up all over again," he whispers, using his thumb to swipe over my wet cheek. "Saying it wasn't supposed to make you cry."
I open my mouth to speak but emotion clogs my throat so thoroughly that nothing comes out.
His face is a solid mask of concern.
"Please, don’t cry," he says, wiping another tear from my face. "You'll have to help me out here, baby. I'm not fully understanding why you're crying. Are you upset I said it?"
I manage to shake my head.
"Do you mean it?" I ask, unsure if I should trust the words.
Part of me wants to run for the hills, terrified that I'm going to get hurt. But the majority of my mind and body want to do backflips, something I know I'm not physically capable of, although his loving me might make it possible.
"I mean it," he says, and it sounds like a vow as if he truly does and always will.
There's security in knowing that someone loves you, a certain kind of safety that makes you brave. I feel cherished by him at this moment, and the parts of my brain that are ringing alarm bells in warning begin to grow silent.
"I want the world with you," he says. The words rush out of his mouth as if he has been needing to say them for a while and he can no longer hold them back. "I want you in my bed, in my home. I want you to be my wife and the mother of my children. I want to give you the world."
In a perfect true love story, all of that sounds amazing. It's exactly what I want as well, but I'm far from perfect.
"I'd be as big as a house, Mac. I don't know that children are—"
He moves his thumb from my cheek and presses it to my lips to silence me.
"We're not doing that," he whispers.
I move my head to dislodge his thumb from my lips. "You wanted honesty, and I'm trying to speak my truth. I'm terrified of commitment. I'm afraid to let myself fall and get completely wrapped up in anyone because, in my mind, there isn't a scenario where you wouldn't grow bored or disgusted. I don't want to end up in a divorce where we have to decide on custody and what holidays we're willing to give up with children."
"I'm not going anywhere, Riley."
"You don't know that," I argue because no one can predict the future .
"I do know that," he states with such fire and determination that I'd be a fool not to believe him.
"You may have to remind me often," I whisper.
"I can do that," he vows.