Chapter 39
39
Isaac
T he next night, I entered the house after hockey practice, resetting the alarm and hiding my car keys—and a secret package—where Tovah couldn’t find them. I needed to trust her, but I…didn’t. I’d been going over and over our conversation the day before in my head all throughout practice, making me play like shit. I’d been so distracted, it had been obvious, and both Coach and my team had let me know they were pissed about it.
But how could I not be? Although Tovah and I had turned a corner, in a good direction, I knew she was still hiding something from me—something important as fuck. The fact that she refused to tell me what it was, that she had secrets, kept us from getting close the way I wanted us to. I could feel the other shoe waiting to drop, and I knew it was going to fuck shit up when it did. I wanted her to talk to me, to trust me, but part of her clearly still thought of me as her enemy.
I needed to smash through her walls, but short of giving her Vixen like I’d threatened, I didn’t know how. And regardless of her giving me Vice, that was something I refused to do to her.
Checking my phone, I noticed multiple missed calls from my sister. I was about to call her back, when I heard low, pained moans coming from upstairs.
The bathroom?
Dropping my phone immediately, I ran up the stairs two at a time. When I reached the bedroom, I found Tovah curled up into a ball, hugging a pillow and whimpering.
I sat on the bed, checking her over. “What’s wrong, bashert? What happened?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s clearly not nothing,” I said, calculating how long it would take to get her to a hospital.
“It’s nothing, Isaac, I just have really bad PMS.” She said the words into the pillow, like she was embarrassed.
I glared at the wall. I was going to kill her doctor.
“What do you usually do for it?” I asked.
“Just try to get through it. I’ve been dealing with this for years, it’s nothing new.”
“If you’re in pain, it’s not nothing,” I stated as I got on the bed, sliding in behind her, opening up the group chat with my teammates.
“Isaac, what are you doing? I don’t want to have sex right now?—”
“I’m not trying to have sex with you. I just want to hold you and rub your back,” I said, wrapping my body around hers.
“Oh, you feel so good,” she moaned, and I had to remind my dick it wasn’t a sexy moan.
I typed a quick text.
Me: can one of you do me a favor and make a run to the grocery store? I need supplies
Jack: What kind of supplies?
Jack: If it’s for sex, the hardware store might be better.
I rolled my eyes. The sociopath always used proper capitalization and punctuation.
Me: its not for sex, you unhinged asshole
Me: Tovah has PMS and I need to get her stuff
Me: its bad tho
Asher: OVERSHARE
Judah: chill the fuck out
Judah: women menstruate
Judah: its biology
Lawson: what do you need?
I really liked this guy.
Me: motrin, midol, something with codeine in it for the pain
Jack: That’s going a little overboard, don’t you think?
Me: shut up, you asshole
Me: youd do the same if it was Aviva
Me: heating pad, chai, books
Lawson: what kind of books? and she might want a hot water bottle instead. my ex girlfriend has PCOS. it always helped her.
Me: yeah, get the hot water bottle
Me: And memoirs from journalists if you can find them
Lawson: i can go pick it all up. give me half an hour
Me: thanks man
Me: owe you one
I closed out of the text, pulling Tovah closer.
“Rest,” I said. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
I left her and went to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients to make soup. As I cooked, I watched the clock. It was quiet upstairs, hopefully she was sleeping. My body ached. I’d heard about sympathy PMS, but really, I just freaking hated that Tovah was in pain and I couldn’t take it from her. If PMS were a man, I’d pummel the shit out of him and then take my skate blade to his throat.
The doorbell rang. I left the soup simmering on the stovetop, going to the front door, disarming the alarm, and opening it.
Lawson stood there, a bag in his hand.
“Thanks, man,” I said. “Really appreciated.”
He shrugged. “Used to take care of my girlfriend all the time. She got horrible cramps, had to stay in bed for days. I’d skip school and practice to be with her.”
“Girlfriend?” I asked, curious. “Or ex-girlfriend?”
“Oh, she’ll be my girlfriend again,” he said, a sly grin on his face. He looked wolf-like in the shadows. “She doesn’t know it yet, but she will.”
“I know how that goes,” I laughed.
Lawson didn’t leave yet. “Look, I know how you guys operate. I know how I operated. It feels like things are perfect right now, but there’s going to come a moment where they aren’t, and you’re going to want to be an asshole, to push her away, to punish her for something that’s outside of her control. My advice? Don’t. Or you’ll fucking regret it.”
With that concerning advice, he nodded at me and turned, heading back to his car.
I closed the door, both on him, and on what he’d said. I was still pissed Tovah was hiding shit from me, but I wasn’t going to let it come between us. I’d been a complete asshole to her in the past, but I was done with that now.
I hoped.
When the soup was done simmering, the scent of chicken broth in the air, I poured some into a bowl, grabbed a spoon, and headed upstairs with that and the bag of PMS recovery shit.
Tovah was sitting up in bed against a pillow, rubbing her stomach.
“I have food. And supplies,” I told her, setting the bowl and spoon down on the nightstand and opening the bag, handing each item to her.
“I’ve got Motrin, Midol, Tylenol with Codeine?—”
“How did you get Tylenol with Codeine?”
I ignored her, glad that Lawson had come through. “A heating pad, a hot water bottle?—”
“Isaac, I’m fine.”
“—tea for later, a biography on William Randolph Hearst?—”
“William Randolph Hearst?” she wrinkled her nose in confusion. “The newspaper magnate?”
“The guys thought you might like it. Also Anderson Cooper’s and Anthony Bourdain’s memoirs.”
“Well, those I’ll read. Thank you, Isaac, but this is too much?—”
“No such thing,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed and picking up the bowl. It was so hot it burned my fingers, but I didn’t give a shit. “Here,” I said, scooping up broth in the spoon and lifting it to her lips.
“Isaac—”
“Eat.” There was no room for argument in my tone.
She complied, opening her mouth and swallowing the broth. I repeated the process, and some part of me hummed in contentment that I was providing for her this way. Torturing her had felt good, in some ways—but taking care of her felt much, much better.
Finally, she pushed my hand away. I handed her a water bottle and some pills, which she took with some grumbling about how she had her period all the time and none of this was necessary , which I ignored.
“Heating pad or hot water bottle?”
“Hot water bottle,” she said, and I silently thanked Lawson for coming through.
After filling it up in the kitchen, I came back out, climbing back into bed with her and pulling her against my chest.
“What do you want to watch?” I asked, looking at the TV.
“You’re going to think it’s stupid.”
“Nothing about you is stupid,” I said emphatically.
“House Hunters International.”
I raised an eyebrow, not expecting that, but I grabbed the remote and turned the TV on, locating the show on a streaming app and starting it up.
We settled in, watching for a bit as Americans and Canadians traveled to foreign countries and tried to find apartment rentals, complaining about how small everything was, how there was no air conditioning, or asking why the fridges were college dorm sized. Clearly, none of these idiots had done their research before they’d moved.
“My favorite part is when they say they need an oven to cook a Thanksgiving turkey. Like, why are they cooking a turkey in Thailand?” she giggled in my arms, making something in my chest ache at the easy happiness in her voice, and the absence of pain.
I’d done that. I’d made her feel better. She was happy, because of me. That heart I’d been so sure I didn’t have, that had shattered so long ago, when my mom had been killed…slowly, it began to stitch back together.
“Why do you like this show so much, then?” I asked her.
She sighed. “It’s the combination of them finding a home, a place that’s theirs, a place to just be safe in, and the freedom to go wherever they want. I’ve never had any of those things. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Fucking hearts. Maybe I didn’t want one after all, because mine squeezed painfully. It was insight into her life she hadn’t given me before, but she sounded so sad, I didn’t want to push. So instead, I held her, watching this dumb show, determined to give her a home and freedom—even if I’d never, ever, give her freedom from me.
“Where would you want to live if you could?” I asked her.
She brightened. “Oh, that’s easy. I have a whole bucket list. Paris, London, Kathmandu, Lima, Ushuaia, Jackson Hole—” she glanced over at me, “What? I love a mountain.”
A smile played on my lips.
“Noted. Where else?”
“Todos Santos, Melbourne, Tokyo, and Prague.”
I stroked her hair. “Why those cities?”
“They seem equally like places you could get lost in and find yourself.”
We were quiet for a bit, before she asked, “So, why major in linguistics? Why so many languages?”
Fuck, this hurt to confess. Emotional intimacy was a pain in the ass.
I cleared my throat. “My mom studied linguistics in college. She spoke like, ten languages. She’d wanted to be an interpreter, but instead she met my dad, and…” I shrugged, clearing my throat again, but the tightness didn’t go away. “Well, he wouldn’t have let her. And she never got the chance, anyway.”
Tovah kissed my shoulder. “I’m so sorry you lost her,” she said. “You have no idea how sorry.”
I blinked a few times, willing the tears away. I never got emotional like this, but her sweetness was doing me in.
“I’m sorry you lost your parents, too,” I said. “It really sucks.”
She looked troubled, but all she said was, “It really does.”
Wrapping my arms around her, I pulled her in tight and settled in to watch the show that embodied her dreams.
Dreams I couldn’t make real for her if I was going to keep her.
And I was going to keep her.
* * *
Once she was asleep, I carefully moved her off me, glancing at her and taking in her soft, sleeping form before quietly leaving the bedroom and heading down the hall. I felt uneasy, and I couldn’t determine why. Unlocking my office, I went to check her phone, hoping it might give me some answers she wouldn’t give me herself.
Other than texts from Aviva, Tovah’s phone had been largely silent, which was kind of weird. I couldn’t unlock it to see any of her emails, except for when I supervised her in the evening when she checked it herself.
Tonight though, there was a text, from someone saved as LOML.
LOML.
Love of my life?
It seemed they’d texted a few times. With a sinking feeling in my gut, I read the only text that showed on the home screen.
Worried about you. Love you. Call me.
Who the hell was LOML, and why the fuck was he telling Tovah he loved her? Aside from Aviva, there was no one in Tovah’s life that she had a close relationship with, according to my sister and her snooping.
Which meant she’d hidden a guy from me.
A boyfriend?
Fuck, no. It might technically be fake between us, but I was the only boyfriend my little snoop was allowed to have.
My hands fisted, and I had to restrain myself from going in there, waking her up, and forcing her to tell me who LOML was. I could do it?—
—and I could also make her retreat even more into herself, to hate me.
Maybe she’d tell me on her own.
And if not, well…
…I’d learned a little about snooping from spending so much time with her, hadn’t I?
So I downloaded a phone cloning app on her phone—one that also tracked its location. I’d give her back her phone and some of that freedom she wanted so badly.
But I’d see everyone she called, and everyone who called her. Be able to read her incoming and outgoing texts. See where she was at all times. One way or another, I was getting answers.
There was a small voice in my head that pointed out that trust had to be earned, that it was a two-way street. That if I spied on her, and kept secrets from her, our relationship would never progress the way I wanted it to.
That voice could go to hell.