51. Its not a tragedy. Its a fucking love story
Chapter 51
It's not a tragedy. It's a fucking love story
LETTIE
I should probably feel guilty, but I don’t. Then again, maybe I shouldn ’t. Was standing up for myself guilt-worthy? Doubtful.
What he was doing was wrong, and he knows it. That’s why he stopped.
My fists clench the sheets in a white-knuckle grip, holding the light gray cotton to cover my bare chest. Thoughts swirl in my mind, but not as many as usual. Really there’s only two.
The first is me processing the gut-wrenching discomfort over upsetting him the way I did. I hate seeing him in pain and loathing himself. He might be more broken than me. Even worse, it was my words that triggered it.
The second train of thought steam rolling through my head is... how do I ease this sensation? For both of us. It’s as if steel wool is being dragged gently along the inside of my chest. Up and down in slow, light strokes. Not abrading or scouring. Just a flutter of discomfort. But the longer the moment stretches with him sitting there, unable to meet my eyes, the harder the steel wool grates against me.
Kicking him out is one way to end this moment. Then I could withdraw, hide out in this place as if it’s my cocoon, and wait until therapy. We’ve got our small group meeting tonight too. This will make great fodder for the girls.
Hey, ladies. Remember the man who barged in and saved us all from the mouth of Hell? He tried to fuck me today because I begged him to. But then in true Lettie fashion, I made it awkward. However, he started it. Anyhow. The salad from Panera was wilted by the time I attempted to eat it. I came twice, but still had blue bean. Crazy, right?
To this, they’ll respond in chorus, “Thanks for sharing, Lettie.”
Then I’ll take my seat. End scene.
Can’t wait for group. It’s gonna be lit.
As I study the back of his frame, hunched over the end of the bed with his head hanging in his hands, the wad of steel wool drags harder against my insides.
“You want to talk about it?” I ask, my tone soft and sincere.
His neck lengthens, and his spine stiffens. Over his shoulder, he asks, “Do you want to talk to me?”
What the hell kind of question is that?
Since I can’t see his face, his flat tone is even harder to read than normal.
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to talk.”
His shoulders curve forward farther, sculpted by the weight of his insecurity. “Guess I figured you’d want me to leave.”
“Turn around and look at me.” Thanks to my mounting frustration my request came out like an order, so I tenderly tack on my manners. “Please, babe. I want to see you.”
It takes longer than I expect, but he finally complies. When our eyes meet, there’s an ocean of sadness behind his blue-green irises.
My heart threatens to split down the middle. Heaven forbid I do kick him out, he can take one half of it with him. I’d give him the whole thing, but if I’m ever going to live or love again, I’ll need it.
I struggle for what to say, but he saves me, speaking first. “You were right. I was manipulating you with sex. And I’m sorry. I didn’t set out to do that, but it ended up that way. I apologize. You deserve better than me.”
There he goes again with the self-loathing.
My jaw clenches, my teeth grinding to the point of pain. “Don’t start the woe is me shit again.”
A familiar expression tugs at his features, sagging the skin at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “I don’t... I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s true. You fucking deserve better than me. Yet I’m too damn weak to walk away from you. The only way I can go is if you order me away. Tell me to go. Tell me to leave, and I’ll obey. I can do that. Just not on my own.”
When he’s done referring to himself as nothing better than a dog chained to an old oak tree, he turns away from me.
The crack in my heart deepens at the image I’ve just painted. Of him, seeing himself as no better than a dog that nobody has ever wanted.
Except I do want him. So does my father. Unfortunately, Tomer hates himself too much to let us love him properly.
Dread and sadness blend inside my stomach, the vortex tugging my heart downward.
Earlier, I was wrong thinking there was no greater torture than loving and hating someone in equal measure. Turns out, there’s something worse.
Loving a man who doesn’t love himself. Never has and possibly never will.
So how could he ever love me in return?
I wonder if the way he feels about himself is related to...
“Why didn’t you really tell me your name?” I ask, testing my hunch. “What were you protecting with that lie?”
He doesn’t answer.
As the seconds pass, his silence becomes deafening.
The truth is, he gained nothing by keeping his name from me.
Getting out of bed, I look around for my clothes, quickly abandoning the search. In a rush, I throw on a shirt and shorts from my dresser and pad around the bed.
Hefting over a chair, I sit right in front of him. He’s gonna look me in my face and tell me the truth, come hell or high water.
“Why the name, huh?” I press again. “We never fully discussed it, and I deserve to know.”
Looking back, I didn’t demand the reason sooner because this lie didn’t matter to me as much in the context of everything else. To be clear, it still mattered. But there were bigger fish to fry.
Well, now all the fish are cooked, except this one. It’s raw and beginning to smell foul.
Not giving up, I try again to get him talking. “As much as I hate your lies about my father and your job, at least I can follow your thought process. You believed you were protecting him.” Tsking my lips, I shake my head. “Your name? That doesn’t make sense to me. You could have kept your other secrets without letting me call you James for a dang year. Why? What did you gain?”
“I don’t know,” he finally answers, his eyes struggling to hold my insistent stare. “When we met, my club alias came out. It just fucking came out. Then it was too late to take it back.”
“ Oh please. Don’t serve me Cheez Whiz and tell me it’s Brie. It wasn’t too late.”
“It’s true,” he whines, flinging his open palms out. “There was no way in hell you would have let me help you if I admitted to giving you a fake name. You wouldn’t let me take you to the grocery store, help you get a job, or be around you at all. No chance.”
“That isn’t true.” Perfect . Now I’m whining.
“Think about it for a second. You’re new in town, a strange man approaches you at a gas pump when you’re crying. He buys you lunch. You talk. You text. Slowly, you get to know each other. A few days into this, he informs you, ‘Hey, I lied about my name. I promise I’m not a psycho. Come check out this sex club with me.’ Come on, Lettie.” He shimmies his head, jaw hanging. “You’d have blocked me so fast.”
He might have a point.
“Fine. I can concede that. However, when it got serious, you could have talked to me about it then. I would have listened.”
“When, Lettie? Before I got you the job or after? Before or after I had my fingers inside you? Or when I took your fucking virginity? Or fell in love with you? Huh? At what point should I have dropped that on your lap and kept even a sliver of a chance that you wouldn’t hate me?” He quirks his head to the side, face dripping with sarcasm he usually doesn’t show. “Hey, I got it. I should have bound you and suspended you from the rig in my bedroom so you couldn’t run away while I told you. Why didn’t I think of that?”
His head flops forward now that he’s done with his rant.
As for me, I can’t fake an answer with all those moments slamming into me at once.
He piles on to his impossible question. “While you’re thinking of when, please also tell me what I could have said.”
Now that’s something I can answer, and it leads me right to the answer for his first question.
“The truth or at least something damn close to it would have served you fine and dandy. After I started working at Bask or knew about that place, you could have told me it was your club alias and since we’d built some trust between us, you felt safe enough to give me your real name. Bam. Done.”
He attempts to stand, probably to stomp away from me, but I clasp his hand and tug him toward the bed. All my anger fizzles in a heartbeat.
“ No. I need you to sit down and talk to me. Please don’t walk away. If you love me, you’ll come clean. Now. Be honest and give us a chance.”
Slowly, he returns to the edge of the bed. His eyes latch on mine, searching for something. In return, I focus on him fully in hopes he finds whatever it is he needs to see there.
I could let go of his hands, but I don’t.
His touch . . . I need it.
As much as I crave his honesty, I need to feel his skin. To know he’s here. That he’s real. Not because I’m scared to be alone, but because I’m scared of losing him.
Again.
“A chance?” The hitch in his voice nearly breaks me. “Are you saying we have a chance?”
My grip on his hands tightens, and my thumbs rub soothing circles over his knuckles. “That depends. Do you want a shot at earning my forgiveness? Are you willing to try?”
“Lettie, you know I want you back more than anything. That’s why I came up here in the first place.”
“Then talk to me.”
After releasing a shuddery breath, he nods. “Okay. I will. I’ll tell you the truth. I promise. Whatever you want to know.”
I release his hand only long enough to cup his cheek with one palm. “Thank you.”
He turns his head, pressing a kiss to the pulse point inside my wrist.
So tender. So loving.
How can a man this sweet do something so cruel? It makes less sense than trying to get applesauce from an almond.
Taking a steadying breath, I decide to gradually help him work through his thoughts, peeling them back layer by layer. “Why didn’t you try honesty? Was it because you didn’t think I had the capacity to forgive you?”
He shakes his head, ardently refuting the possibility. “No, that’s not it.”
“It obviously hurt you to maintain the lie. I’m well aware how much it weighed on you. And I believe you love me. You’ve shown me in all the other ways.” My chest quivers when I attempt to inhale. “How does someone protect and love me the way you do but still lie about his name for so long? Make it make sense.” I swallow roughly, barely able to work the lump down my throat. “ Please .”
“Your boss said,” I crick my neck to the side and amend, “my father said you never do things without a reason. Hell, you’ve told me that before about yourself. There must be a reason. Start at the beginning. The first day we met.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until teardrops cascade onto my thighs.
He reaches for my face, gently wiping away the moisture. “On the day you met me, I had no intention of becoming a part of your life. So my name was inconsequential. All I wanted was to help you out of a rough spot. You were Redleg family, whether anyone knew it but me. And you needed help. You were so damn sad and hungry. I couldn’t stand?—”
Recapturing both his hands, I interrupt when his words jog my memory. “Just remembered something. On the day we broke up, you said you were hungry a lot. For most of your life. Something like that. What did you mean?”
His chin quivers. The anguish in his eyes screams how he doesn’t want to tell me that answer. This topic, like many others, has been hidden behind a brick wall for so long.
Miraculously, he finds the strength to batter through his longstanding wall of secrecy. “Remember me saying my mom died when I was a little boy?”
I nod, continuing to rub his hands with my thumbs. With all my heart, I inject every bit of love and support I have for him through my fingertips, in hopes it soaks through his skin and finds his veins.
“After she died, my father was... he didn’t...” He presses his lips together and faces the side of the room.
I pulse his hand tighter. “It’s okay. You can tell me anything. Take your time.”
If this is going where I think it’s going, I might vomit. Again.
“He didn’t take good care of me.” Eyes still closed, he shakes his head in tiny wobbles. “Correction. He didn’t care for me at all . He rarely fed me. I was left alone. A lot. Not just for hours, but days sometimes. A random stranger might come over and toss a bag of McDonald’s at me. Sometimes there were waffles in the freezer. I didn’t know how to cook them, so I ate them cold. Sometimes crackers or chips were left lying around. So I was alone and hungry. All the time.”
My tears fall in earnest now, streaming down my cheeks in a constant flow.
“Don’t cry, sugar. Don’t cry for me,” he whispers across my forehead before kissing it tenderly.
“I will cry for you. I’ll cry my damn eyes out for you because I love you, and I hate that you were treated with such cruelty. How could he do that to a little boy? It’s just... unimaginable. You didn’t deserve that. No child does.”
He shrugs, as if he doesn’t believe he was undeserving of such treatment. “I sat alone in that room. In that old, dirty house. A mattress on the floor. Ragged clothes. Barely any toys. Freezing and shivering in the winter. Lying in a pool of sweat in the summer. And I waited. But I had no idea what I was waiting for. I only knew that when he came home, it would probably be bad. It would be... really bad. You understand what I’m saying, sugar bear?”
“Yes.” I sniffle, breath hiccupping around a sob. “Yes. I do.”
He wasn’t only neglected but beaten too. I won’t make him say it. His eyes convey as much, let alone the agony lacing his tone.
“Well, yeah. That’s what I meant. I know hunger more than most people, and I couldn’t stand to see you suffer.”
There’s something so familiar in his words and the feeling they evoke. His description... I can see it. Feel it. Viscerally.
Almost as if I lived it alongside him. Only that’s crazy because I had a good childhood. One with a full belly and someone there to tuck me in at night. Friends, toys, and love. Sometimes misguided love, but love nonetheless.
So why does it feel so familiar?
Before I’m able to put a fine enough point on the sensation, he recaptures my wayward thoughts. “Once you knew me as James, my best course was to stay away. Otherwise, I’d have to reveal my name. Doing so might bring you closer to finding out about Big Al. So I kept my name a secret, along with where I worked. Nothing to tie me to your father or make it so you two might cross paths. I despised the lie, Lettie. It ate away at me. That’s why I fucking tried so damn hard to remove myself from your life.”
“I thought you didn’t want me or felt I was too young. A million other reasons. I didn’t know you were trying to protect me from a lie.”
A sad smile glides over his features. “Attempting to stay away from you was pointless. I was already addicted. Your smile, your voice, your chaos. You drew me in, and I-I needed more. You were the sun. Everything in my life was cold and dark, and it always has been. All I wanted was to bask in your warmth and light. Just another day , I told myself. Another hour in the sun, and then I’ll go .” His throat bobs with a forced swallow. “Lettie, it was never enough. It never will be.”
The way he sees me is... beautiful and tragic. As much as I love being that for him, it’s equally devastating to realize I was the only one who drew him out of the darkness. To never know the light, spending thirty-six years alone, not experiencing love. And you finally find someone who shines for you, yet you can’t be your true self with them. Living a lie of your own making.
A tragedy.
Profound as this is, it doesn’t answer my initial question of why .
Letting go of his hands, I crawl onto his lap. I can’t stand the space between us. He wraps his arms around me, tucking me tight to his chest.
I run the back of my hand along the side of his face, scratching over his scruff. “You want to know what I think?”
Spearing one hand through my hair, he gently strokes the locks, then tucks it behind my ear. “What, sugar?”
“As to why your alias came out of your mouth initially, I don’t know. Perhaps it was an instinct to shield yourself from me, thus hiding why you showed up in my life. Since you intended it to be a drive by encounter , why say anything that could potentially lead me to my father. Farfetched as it may seem, I can buy this possibility. But...”
“What?”
“After that, you should have told me it was your club alias, and now that we knew each other better, you no longer needed to use it with me. I would have understood, and it wouldn’t have been a lie. We became so close, so fast, you had to know I’d have heard you out. Sure, I’d overreact at first, but I liked and felt safe with you. You would have convinced me it wasn’t malicious.”
“Then wha?—”
Pressing my finger to his mouth, I shush him. “Shh. I’m not done.”
He tilts his head down, silently apologizing for interrupting.
“Maybe you wanted to protect the real you from me. From the feelings I brought out in you. Withholding your real name was your way of holding yourself back. I couldn’t reject Tomer if there was only James.”
For a moment, he’s lost in thought. His face pinches, and his lips bunch to one side.
When he doesn’t respond, I offer up something personal in exchange like an emotional bartering system. “You aren’t the only one who lied about their name to protect themselves, you know.”
His eyes come into sharp focus. “What do you mean?”
I study the way my hand fiddles at his shirt collar. “At the nightmare house on the morning I woke up there.”
My eyes crimp to stave off the brewing waterworks.
His rich, soothing timbre yanks me from the dark road my thoughts were starting to journey down. “Look at me, sweetness. You’re here with me. You’re safe.” Brushing faintly over my cheek, his thumb sweeps away the single tear that escaped.
Like magic, his magnetic eyes whisk me to a peaceful meadow at sunset. His familiar scent wafts around us, propelled by the wind of a butterfly’s fluttering wings.
In his arms, there is quiet and peace. I’m cherished and protected.
After soaking in his tranquility for a few seconds, I finish my explanation. “When I woke up, one of the girls asked my name. On reflex, I spat out, ‘Ana.’ I didn’t know why I did it at first. It wasn’t a conscious thought. I had no reason to deceive her. Do you know why I didn’t give her my real name?”
“To hide a part of yourself?” he surmises.
“Sort of.” I dampen my dry lips with a few swipes of my tongue. “Babe, I didn’t want that place to have my name. I knew they were gonna take everything else from me. Keeping my name was part defense mechanism and part defiance. Like silently flipping them off, even if I was the only one who knew I was doing it. Not defying the girl who asked, but the men. I felt they wouldn’t hurt the real me if they didn’t even know my name. They might batter and break Ana, but Lettie was safe.”
“You were protecting yourself.”
Through wobbly lips fighting off a sob, I say, “I tried.”
A barren darkness settles behind his eyes when he connects the dots. “ He knew your name, though. Your real one. Right?”
Viktor.
I nod, struggling to hold back the deluge.
Knowing my abuser took the last sliver of comfort I’d preserved for myself—my anonymity—made me hopeless. I wondered how I’d ever survive it with him knowing my name.
Looking back, it seems foolish. However, when I was living it, my name was all I thought I could save. It was my last shred of control.
And Viktor took it from me.
Tomer cradles the side of my head, pressing my cheek against his chest. It’s not enough comfort. I might be on Tomer’s lap with my legs flung over his thighs, but it’s still too dang far away. I’m suffering from the pesky feminine urge to crawl under his skin and live there.
Adjusting my position, I shift, spreading my thighs to straddle him. My arms settle on his shoulders, my hands laced at his nape. He supports my lower back, tucking his hands behind me to lock me in place.
Gradually, our breathing syncs up.
Before speaking, I shimmy to press myself flush against him. “The thing is, babe. Although Viktor had my name, he still didn’t break me. I was foolish to think my name could protect me. A name isn’t a weapon or armor. It’s just a name.”
The lines around his eyes redden. “Lettie, I think I know why I lied about my name.”
Slinking my fingertips through his hair, I lean my forehead on his. “Tell me.”
Even if I already know.
“It’s the same reason I find it hard to believe Big Al loves me. Why it’s easier to believe my coworkers teasing is out of malice or hatred of me, rather than because they’re treating me like they treat each other. Like siblings. A family.”
“Go ahead and say it. I promise I won’t see you any differently.”
His nostrils flare with a ragged inhale, and the fingertips resting around my waist dig in deeper. “When we met, I’d already fallen halfway in love with you. From watching you. And I didn’t think there was any way Violet Anastasia Holt could ever love Tomer Stillman.” Another deep inhale, and his chest quivers against mine. “Because... because...”
He can’t finish, so I do it for him. “Because your father made you feel unlovable.”
Through anguished nods, he adds, “He said I’d always be alone. No one could ever love me. I was a freak. Ruined everything. He said I didn’t deserve a name. That’s why he called me boy. Like our dog. The one he wouldn’t let me name.”
If his dad wasn’t already dead, he would be as soon as I found him. Lettie the Lamb would become Violet the Vengeful.
A choking sound emanates from the back of Tomer’s throat. He’s so dead set on holding in his emotions it’s literally clogging his airway.
I don’t hide my tears or try to hold them back.
Holding him and loving him the best I can, I simply cry and release my sorrow. Each tear that falls carries with it pieces of sadness that would darken my soul if I didn’t set them free.
If only he could do it too.
Sure, he cried on the day I left him. A few other times since my rescue. But that was because of what was happening to me or out of panic that I was leaving him. Tears of desperation aren’t the same.
He needs to cry for himself. For the loss of his youth. That’s where his darkness stems from.
And I get it. He was never allowed to experience emotions as a child. Grew up thinking he wasn’t lovable. Why would you want to feel anything when all you knew was hate?
And yet . . .
I gather my composure with a series of intentional breaths. “Tomer, you know what?”
He wipes away my tears again, gazing into my eyes with hope reflecting in his. “What, sugar bear?”
“I come with good news. Not the church kind.” I chuckle at my dumb joke, then quickly continue, “Your father was wrong. You aren’t unlovable. You aren’t a freak. And you damn sure won’t be alone if I have anything to say about it.” I squeeze him with my thighs, matching the pulsing of my arms to wrap him up as tightly as I can. “Despite knowing your name, whether he used it or not, he didn’t break you.”
“Lettie, I am broken,” he contends.
“Not the way I see it.” I caress his cheek, speaking softly and honestly. “You learned how to love. He taught you hate, but you still love. Bigger and deeper than most. I’ve felt it since the day we met. Safe. Cherished. Loved. Because of you. Not James. Tomer loved me. ”
“Lettie, could you ever love me back? The real me?”
Attempting to stifle my sass, I bite my lip. It doesn’t work. The brat must brat.
“Are you blind, old man?”
Our tension melts into soft chuckles.
I release my lower lip from between my teeth. “Can’t you see I already love you?”
“Seeing it and believing it are two very different things. I’m trying, but I’m still cold,” he taps his fist to his chest, “in here. Cold and dark.”
“You said I’m like the sun for you, right?” Lowering my palm to his chest, I place it directly over his heart, hoping to spread some of the warmth he says I bring him.
He nods, cupping his hand over mine to hold it in place.
“Then look at me when you’re struggling to believe it. Be it on camera or in person. Look at me. ‘Cause you know what they say?”
“What?”
“When you face the sun, the shadows fall behind you. Let them stay there. In your past, where they won’t darken everything ahead of you. Look at me and let my love drive away the cold like sunshine was made to do. Whenever you need me, I’ll blissfully do that for you. Because I do love you, Tomer. You are so worthy of my love.”
“Dammit, I love you, Violet. I fucking love you . You are... my whole world.” He mashes his lips together and shakes his head. “I don’t read poetry or write love songs. Maybe if I did, I could find a more ornate way to say it. Love? It’s only four letters. Doesn’t do justice to the depth of my feelings. No words could ever ring true with what you mean to me. You deserve a confession more beautiful than any four letters. I speak seven languages and none of them could justly convey the devotion and adoration I have for you. You’re in my bones. My soul. In every damn breath that fills my lungs. My heart didn’t start beating until the first time you looked into my eyes. How could I ever express any of that with words?”
Tears streaming down my cheeks unabashedly, I place a watery kiss on his lips. “I think you just did.”
Before I bawl, I close the distance between our mouths and kiss him deeper this time. It starts tenderly, merely our lips connecting to seal the words we’ve spoken from our hearts. The sound of our breathing echoes around the room, joined by the rustle of our hands roaming over our clothing.
I break the kiss to tell him again. “I love you.”
His hands steadily move up my sides, traveling from my hips to my shoulders before they settle on the sides of my neck. He applies the gentlest pressure. Only enough for me to feel the comfort of his possession.
And I do. I feel it.
He owns me, and dammit, I wouldn’t have it any other way. From the sound of it, I own him right back.
Our sweet kisses soon grow more passionate, awakening that all-consuming arousal. All the love we’re basking in shimmers from my heart down to my core. When our mouths open and close, working over each other’s, all that sadness I’ve felt for so long fades away. Not into darkness, but blending into the light, making it more vibrant.
Every few seconds, one of us pulls away to refill our lungs, taking advantage of the chance to utter more professions of love. We’re starting to be obnoxious with the I love yous, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Unbidden, my hips start rocking over him. His dick stiffens under me, which makes me grind harder until I’m panting and mewling.
The next time I come up for air, I beg, “Will you please make love to me?”
The cords of his neck protrude under my hand where I’m caressing him. “Not sex. Or fucking. If we do this, then it?—”
“It’ll mean something,” I finish for him, grinning and nodding enthusiastically. “It’ll mean everything.”
He holds my cheeks, tilting my face to keep our eyes aligned. “And it’ll be me inside you. Not James or someone you only think you know. It’ll be me. Tomer. Is that what you want?”
“How could you ask that, you dope?” My lips pull tight over my teeth. “To be clear, I’m asking Tomer Stillman to make love to me.”
“Say that one more time, sugar bear.”
“ Tomer , will you make love to me?”
He answers with his mouth, but not words. It’s a claiming kiss, scorching my lips and burning himself into my soul.
Exactly where he belongs.