Chapter 25 – Amanda
Twenty-Five
Amanda
E than is acting weird. I know that might not be saying much considering he’s a gambling addict in recovery and a criminal member of a biker gang. But it started the night he went out to investigate the therapy’s office break-in. He told me that he found the guys and that I ‘wouldn’t have to worry anymore’...
But that doesn’t mean the police investigation is done. And I’ve heard nothing from Ethan about his plan for what happens next. We slept together when he got back that night – technically, it was 5 a.m., so morning sex for me. Since then, his strangeness has only amplified.
I confront him over breakfast after two weeks of Ethan acting like a complete weirdo.
“Are you gambling again?”
“What?” he asks, giving me a mean look. I raise my eyebrows at him, because that mean redneck look won’t be enough to get me off his case. I’m not going to let his attitude throw me off.
“You heard me.”
“No. I’ve been clean.”
“I assumed you were keeping me here because you relapsed.”
His glare intensifies. “If you want to go, move out. I’m sure paying three grand for a shithole apartment will be easy for a new business owner.”
“Ethan, is everything okay?”
“I’m FINE!” Ethan roars, slamming down an empty glass and storming off to the bedroom. He has lost his mind. I knew I was right to wait until giving him the news about my new office. He is weird and this man is absolutely not fine at all. He’s crazy.
I sigh and center myself, which will be critical before dealing with this angry bear of a man. If he’s not gambling again, why the fuck is he acting like this? We barely talk about feelings or the future. Ethan clearly hates Boston, he has no reason to be here anymore now that his mom’s treatment is almost at an end.
Unlike all the other relationships in my life I felt like I had to force, I finally feel like I don’t have to force something. He’s going back to Missouri and I can enjoy the fact that I got turned out by a biker in my mid-thirties.
Calmly, I knock on the bedroom door.
“I’m sleeping,” Ethan says. “Go for a walk, maybe you’ll find a new place to live.”
“Can we talk about it like mature adults?”
Ethan flings the door open with so much force that I flinch. His eyes are fierce, and filled with rage. His body fills the doorway. He’s a giant hunk of muscle and one hand could crush me like a Coke can. I hold my ground despite the physical terror coursing through me. I hold his gaze.
“Now you want to talk like a mature adult.”
“You’re the one throwing a tantrum.”
“You’re the one who won’t admit you give a shit about me, even if… we share a bed.”
Ethan’s voice grows soft, almost weak. Catching himself, he puffs up. “I’m finished with you and your lies. But I’d be careful who to trust if I were you.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Your friend isn’t so innocent.”
“No poker? No slot machines?”
“This isn’t about gambling,” he says forcefully.
“Okay. Then what is it about, Ethan?”
“Mallory, your traitorous friend. And you, something even worse.”
“You are nuts.”
“I’d rather be nuts than live my entire life denying myself pleasure.”
“I don’t do that! And leave Mallory out of this. What is your problem?”
“She’s not who you think she is and the worst part is knowing that you don’t even trust me, even if I’ve proven myself to you.”
“Ethan, you’re having an argument in your head with yourself.”
He infuriates me. I have known Mallory for years. We studied together. We moved to Boston together. We did clinical rotations together in Chicago and she went through all kinds of drama with me. She’s my ride or die. If Ethan would explain himself that would help.
“It’s a lot more productive than talking to you, Doctor Denial,” he says. His cold voice just pisses me off, not to mention the insult.
I fold my arms, giving him a firm response that does nothing to budge his closed-off body language. “Don’t call me that.”
“Then admit you’re too scared to be with me because I’m not fancy enough. Or maybe I’m not the man you think you deserve because of the gambling and the bike club. I don’t know what it is.”
Emotions color his face and then he grows calm and withdrawn. I watch the light dim in Ethan’s eyes and feel a mixture of guilt, rage, and confusion. Why does he want to do this now?
“Who says I’m scared? I asked you one question–”
“My problem isn’t gambling,” Ethan’s voice booms heavily. “It’s you. And the bullshit you dragged me into…”
He seems so angry. I want to hold onto him as much as I want to push him away. The woman in me wants to slap him, but the therapist sees all of Ethan’s vulnerabilities. I saw them the second he walked through my door. A big man like that doesn’t know a life of softness, especially Ethan, who clearly avoids giving his heart freely to women.
He spends more time thinking about looking after his mother than bitching about past lovers, which is rare for men in their late thirties. I see those parts of him, but I also see the truth. He hates Boston. He struggles with gambling. And… How the hell would a relationship between us work? We’re too different and it goes beyond skin color.
I’m not denying my feelings for him. I’m acknowledging the truth – it doesn’t matter how I feel. This man will leave me like all the others have. When I finally push him too hard, ask for too much, or when I grasp at too much independence, he’ll get on that motorcycle and leave the city.
I keep my voice steady, holding back all my emotions as I try to stay focused on drawing this conversation to a productive outcome. “Why don’t you trust Mallory?”
“Because I don’t trust anyone with secrets.”
I try to press him, unsure if it’ll work. “What secrets?”
Ethan’s face turns bright red.
“There’s no point in discussing this.”
“Why not?”
“Because you won’t ever see me as anything more than a monster. And if this hasn’t changed that, nothing will.”
“Ethan…”
The wall is up again. I feel forced out of his heart and out of his life. And what does he mean about Mallory? That seems important. But I can’t get Ethan’s body language to open up. I offer him gentle eye contact, but he looks away from me, barely concealing his anger. He’s trying not to scare me with his size and I don’t feel afraid, but I do feel incredibly far away from him.
“We’re done with this conversation,” he says affirmatively in a tense voice that pushes me out the door before Ethan does it himself.
Using his large body, he backs me up and edges me out of the doorway before he closes the door. And locks it.
“ETHAN!” I call after him, pressing my palm hard against the door. He’s on the other side, hurting and now he’s hurting me. My professional training doesn’t prepare me for the reality of arguments that happen in my personal life. I have my own triggers, my own fears, and right now, they’re all coming up here.
Why won’t he make it easy for me to push him away? And why do I still feel so drawn to fix his hurt when I know he’s going to walk out that door someday and head back to Missouri.
“I’ll let you back in after dinner,” he grunts. “I need to be alone.”
I don’t know what happened the night he went out. If he hurt someone else. If he got hurt. Something happened and now he’s suspicious of Mallory and shoving me out the door unceremoniously. My stomach tightens in a knot and I wish I had Ethan’s size and strength because I would rip the door off its hinges.
“When you’re ready, I want to talk.”
He doesn’t reply. I press my head against the door. Am I crazy?
Ethan thinks that I’m pushing him away because of a sense of superiority. Nothing could be further from the truth. It’s just… we’re so different. And it doesn’t make sense how much chemistry we have. He’s not progressive at all. He speaks in growls and grunts. He gambles. He drinks. He rides a bike.
But I feel so fucking loved when I’m with him. Making love to him taps into a part of me that I used to think of as completely dusted over. He made me feel like I wasn’t going to just dry up and wither into old age without touching a man again. Like there was a chance at adventure in the world.
I care about my career and what I built. Of course, I do. But that doesn’t make me better than Ethan, and I would never see him as too beneath me when he’s treated me as well as he could considering the circumstances. I didn’t trust him at first but… time has changed that. Most guys would have ghosted me by now and made some bullshit excuse about “connecting with their higher self”, which I learned is code for “pursuing their dating app fueled sex addiction”.
He’s different. He’s special. He might be a regular, corn-fed country boy but… he’s more to me than any other man. I don’t think he would have ever worked out as a patient, really. But he was right about one thing – we can heal each other. It hasn’t happened yet, but I can feel him healing me. Healing my cynicism. Healing my feelings of despair about love.
I don’t know what to make of those feelings and I don’t know how to talk about them, but I would have never hurt Ethan if I knew he cared so much.
I have to center myself again, but I withdraw from the door and retreat to the kitchen. Mostly because I left my phone there, and I immediately need to text my best friend about Ethan’s weird ass comment. If I get the answer from Mallory directly, I’ll give Ethan time to simmer down and show him that I’m not “Doctor Denial”. I just need time.
I text Mallory and she responds in seconds.
Mallory: I have a secret?
Me: I don’t know. He’s crazy? I’m a magnet for crazy men.
Mallory: LOL
Mallory: True.
Me: He locked me out of the bedroom.
Mallory: Asshole!
Me: But there are no secrets, right?
I see those three dots for a long time. A very long time.
Mallory: It depends.
Me: ???
Her response twists my throat into a knot.
Mallory: Can you come over?
I can do whatever I want. But I’ve never been to Mallory’s new place. She moved after the office situation. Her response isn’t a direct “no”. You notice these little details the more you talk to people and help them unpack their past traumas and current conflicts.
Now, I’m dying to know what Mallory is hiding, what Ethan knows, and how this connects to the showdown in my office. Was it literally luck that Ethan was there? Was I really the target? Was Mallory?
Me:
Send me the address.
* * *