76. Allie #2
He didn’t trust me. Not enough. Not with the parts of him that actually mattered. I was good enough to share a last name with. Good enough to screw. But trust? Respect? Real vulnerability?
Apparently, those had to be earned with a decoder ring and twelve levels of emotional gymnastics.
And that’s the painful truth, isn’t it?
I would never win this game.
Because Rico Bennetti never let me play in the first place.
“How’s your therapist? Knock her up yet?”
His brows lift, and I’m positive I’m hallucinating from weeks of shitty sleep, because he almost looks amused as he answers me. “Him.”
My brain stutters. “You…” I blink. “Wait. What?”
“You think I like men?”
Then the asshole laughs. A real, deep, head-tipped-back, stomach-clutching laugh.
It’s beautiful.
A sound I’ve never heard from him before.
And my traitorous ears soak up every second.
I hate him.
“I’m missing the joke.”
“If you saw him, you’d see why that’s funny.” His lips twitch. “For fuck’s sake. He’s an actual therapist. A real, certified, Ph.D.-level shrink. The kind normal people see when they’re trying to, you know, heal.”
I open my mouth, then shut it.
Because…what?
“But that night,” I finally manage. “You said you were with her.”
His expression darkens. “I was with him. Not in the way you thought. Not in the way I let you think.”
“Why would you do that?”
He exhales slowly, stepping closer, his fingers tilting my chin up.
“Because I’m an asshole. One who pushes away anything that could make me happy.
I was mad—at myself, at you for changing me.
So I lashed out. I won’t say it was okay, because it wasn’t.
It was wrong.” He hesitates. “And worse…I knew you loved me, and I couldn’t say it back.
” His jaw rocks back and forth. “I couldn’t say it back. ”
“Yeah, we covered that last time. Remember?”
His face tightens. Good. At least he remembers that conversation—the one where he shattered me into pieces.
“I didn’t mean it.”
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Well, that makes one of us.”
Ignoring him, I adjust the strap of my duffel bag, shifting my focus to something—anything—that isn’t Rico standing there with that look in his eyes. The one that threatens to pull me apart all over again.
“Allie…” His voice is rough. “Do you want to know why I’m in therapy? Real therapy?”
No. I can’t handle it. Not now. Not when I’ve spent weeks trying to build a wall around the exact thing he’s about to bulldoze.
Instead of protecting myself, my mouth opens, and the word comes out, anyway. “Why?”
“To fix myself. For you.”
My stomach tightens, but I don’t let my face betray me. “So…not for you. Not to actually heal. Just to become a version of yourself you think I want.”
He studies me, waiting, searching for something I refuse to give him.
“You don’t fix yourself for someone else, Rico,” I mumble. “That’s not how it works.”
“So trying to be better for my wife doesn’t matter?”
“No. Because one day, you’ll resent me for it. And if you sign the damn papers, I’d no longer be your wife.”
He flinches. Just slightly. But I see it.
I press on, voice firm. “It’s too late, Rico.
Say you didn’t cheat. Say you are getting better.
None of it changes you not choosing this marriage.
Neither of us did. You never wanted this.
And when you finally get better, you deserve the chance to find someone you love because you actually love them, not because you think you should just because they love you. ”
His lips part, but I lift a hand before he can speak.
“Don’t you dare say you love me.” My voice is steady, even as my heart cracks in half. “I filed the papers. Marco gave them to you. Sign them.”
I step around him—Operation: Dignified Exit in full swing—but then his fingers close around my wrist.
“Allie…”
I stare straight ahead. If I look at him, I’ll cave. And I’m fresh out of duct tape for my poor, gullible heart.
He doesn’t just stop me here. Instead, he tugs the duffle off my shoulder, then reels me into his chest.
His jaw rests on top of my head. His arms lock around me with a grip that says mine—which would be cute if we weren’t in the middle of a slow-motion emotional car crash.
“Don’t give up on me.”
The words are low, rough. Broken, even. If he were anyone else, I’d swear there were tears brimming behind that thick wall of stoicism. But this is Rico Bennetti. A man more likely to bench press his feelings than actually feel them.
I should pull away. Run, sprint, crab walk—I don’t care.
Just go. But my traitor of a body decides now’s the perfect time to melt.
The scent of him wraps around me—spiced woods, clean soap, and something annoyingly addictive.
His chest rises and falls in this unsteady rhythm, his heart pounding loud enough to echo in my ears.
He frowned earlier. He smiled. He talked.
Don’t be an idiot, Allie.
Maybe he is healing. Maybe the universe hit “update software” on his emotional range. Good for him. I genuinely hope he finds peace, hugs his brothers more, maybe even gets into journaling or goat yoga.
But me?
I was the shortcut. The simple answer to his family deadline and the looming expectation of baby-making. I wasn’t a choice—I was a checkbox.
If I let him in now, I’ll never stop wondering if I stayed because he needed someone, or because he wanted me.
“Rico…” I try, my voice already betraying me.
But then both his hands are on my face, cradling it like I’m the most fragile thing he’s ever held.
His amber eyes lock on mine. Glossy. Intense. A little unhinged.
“Do you want to know a secret?” he whispers.