Chapter 34
thirty-four
. . .
Nick
Sweaty and breathless, I collapse onto the sheets. My heart races as I wait for my equilibrium to reset.
Beside me, Bex releases a loud, guttural sigh. Her hand roves over the sheets until it finds mine, and I lace our fingers together before bringing her hand to my lips and kissing her knuckles.
“You good?” I rasp.
“I think you killed me.” She laughs, exhaustion lining her voice.
But I don’t laugh.
Instead, I freeze as my blood floods with ice-cold terror.
“Don’t.” I barely squeak the word out, my voice choked. “Don’t joke.”
My gorgeous redhead turns to me, propping herself up on one elbow. “You think you’re a danger to me?”
Horrified, I spit out, “I’m not going to kill you.”
“I know you’d never hurt me. You’re not like that.”
Sure, I’ve broken her brother’s nose. I’ve been in my fair share of fights. But that’s hockey. That’s not real life.
But that’s not what she’s talking about, either.
I cut her off with a quick jerk of my head. “My father is the reason my mother is dead.”
She freezes. “What?”
“He may not have held a gun to her head, and he may not have performed the surgery, but it’s because of him—because of what he did—that she is dead.”
On my forearm is a list of Roman numerals. Bex likes to run her fingers over the inked lines. She did that day in Ohio, and now, as if our minds are telepathically connected, she traces a finger over the tattoo.
“This is for her.”
“Her birthday and her death day,” I confirm. My throat spasms around emptiness. “He didn’t qualify for a liver transplant because he hadn’t been sober long enough, and he pressured her to donate. She wouldn’t let me. I wish it were me.”
Bex’s eyes fill with sorrow. “Nick…”
“I don’t wish I were dead. If anything, I wish it were him, so she would still be here.” I clear my throat. “But instead, she caught an infection, and by the time she went to the hospital, she was already septic. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
My voice catches. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
Moisture fills my eyes, and I duck my head. I don’t want her to see me like this. As discreetly as I can manage when we’re naked in bed, I try to rub at my eyes, try to clear the telltale signs.
Before I know what’s happening, Bex wraps me in her arms, pulling me into her. Her breasts press against my bare chest, but I can’t even let myself enjoy her nakedness. Not when I feel like my soul has been splayed open for her to see. Not when she knows my ugly truth.
“She forgives you,” Bex murmurs, her small hand roving over my back. “You have to let go of this pain you’ve been carrying for the last fifteen years. You have to let yourself heal.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
She pulls back, laying her hand on my cheek. “Do you remember the other day, when you told me to trust you, and I was standing in my own way?”
Unsure of where she’s going with this, I dip my chin in a wary nod.
“Right now, you’re doing the exact same thing. You’re holding yourself back, even if it’s subconsciously. You’re not letting yourself experience all the highs and lows of life because you’re so focused on this painful memory.”
I swallow. “I don’t know how to move past it.”
“It takes time.”
“It’s been fifteen years.” Frustrated, I swipe at my still-leaking eyes. It’s like now that I’ve turned on the faucet, I can’t turn it back off. Fuck.
“You have to forgive yourself. You can still feel your feelings, but you have to let go of the guilt.”
She traces her thumb beneath my eye, catching an errant drop.
“There is nothing you can do to change what happened. There’s no magical cure to make it stop hurting. But you also can’t let it consume you. There has to be a middle ground.”
“My dad… he came to the rink.”
“Do you want to see him? Maybe mend fences?” Her tone, though curious, lacks judgment.
“No. I never want to see him again.” That, I’m sure about.
Bex presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “Then you won’t. Stay firm to your boundaries, and start the hard work of healing. It won’t be easy. It won’t be quick. But it will be worth it in the end.”
Scooping her into my arms, I roll my body over hers, tangling our legs together. We fit perfectly together, her soft curves to my hard muscles. If there’s such thing as heaven, it’s this, right here.
But in order for our relationship to be successful, I have to work on myself too. And that includes finding happiness and fulfillment in other aspects of my life. We’ll never survive if my entire world revolves around her. I need friends and hobbies. I need a life.
In this moment, I resolve to do better. To be better. For her, and for us.
“What did I do to deserve you?” I murmur, before I bury my face in her neck.
Her hand weaves through my hair, then, with a sharp yank, tugs me back until our eyes meet. Her stares pins me, sharp and assessing.
“Our relationship doesn’t work on keeping score. We’re equals in everything that matters.” Her gaze softens. “I want to be your partner. Your equal. We don’t have to do anything to deserve each other. We have to respect this, and each other.”
“I do. Respect you, that is.”
“I know.” She releases me, but I stay propped up above her, cataloging the warmth of her amber eyes, the little constellation of freckles beneath them, the wisps of copper strands at her hairline. “We wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t.”
An emotion I can’t quite identify clogs my throat.
“I really like you, Bex Marie,” I eke out.
“I really like you, too,” she murmurs.
And when she kisses me, I finally let myself believe.
I finally let myself fall.
And she’s there to catch me.