19. Declan
DECLAN
I surely heard her wrong. But I’m still trying to figure out what words all rhyme with vagina when Thea pushes Astrid and me into a private therapy room, says, “You need to talk about this privately,” and forcibly shuts the door behind us.
“That wasn’t actually how I practiced saying that to you.” Astrid is watching me with an expression I can’t quite describe.
“You practiced telling me that your vagina is broken?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Well, yeah, you kind of need to know, but it’s not an easy thing to say.”
I step toward her. “What does that mean?” I ask. “That it’s broken? The bones? You’re still having trouble from your pelvic fracture?”
I know all about her injury from her fall and the resultant surgeries. The fall had happened on national television, but, of course, no details would have been shared if Astrid and her team hadn’t agreed.
Astrid allowed the release of the information, having determined early on to put a positive spin on the incident that ended her gymnastics career.
She informed the public of everything from the diagnoses to what was being done about each piece, then live-streamed her physical therapy sessions with Miles, the good, the bad, and the really bad.
By the time she walked out of the hospital, she had a huge crowd, both in person and online, cheering her on.
“No, it’s not my bones. I mean that fracture made it worse, but it’s muscular now.”
Okay, I know female anatomy, thank you very much. I know the bones of the pelvis, and I know there are muscles there, surrounding, yes, the vagina. So…
She wipes her hand over her cheek, reminding me that there were tears there a moment ago, and I step forward again. “You’re in therapy. And crying. You’re obviously in pain.”
And it’s killing me. I’m literally itching to scoop her up and…I’m not sure. I don’t know what to do with her or for her. But everything in me is screaming to do something. To fix it. To make it better.
To fucking touch her. Whether that’s to make myself feel better, to convince myself that she’s whole and breathing and fine, or if it’s to comfort her somehow, I’m not sure.
Maybe it’s both.
She shakes her head. “Actually no. Much less pain.”
I scowl. “You’re crying.”
“Happy tears,” she tells me. “I had a really good therapy session.”
I like that. But I’m losing patience. “I’ve just spent the past hour convinced that you were so horrified to find me touching you that you bolted, possibly running all the way to New Orleans to the airport, to get on a plane and move another two thousand miles away.”
She stares at me.
“It’s not like that’s entirely crazy, and you couldn’t make it happen,” I point out.
I’m very proud of myself for not yelling.
Suddenly, she starts laughing. “You’re right. It’s not totally unfair for you to think that.”
I advance on her again. “You’re laughing?”
She nods, still grinning.
And I love it. I fucking love when she smiles and laughs. The tension in my spine has evaporated, and I’m breathing fully in and out for the first time in an hour.
“I would never leave Oscar and the ducks.”
She’s messing with me.
I have no doubt that she would not leave the animals, in fact, but she’s teasing me right now, and I’m…relieved.
And more in love with her right now than I was before.
“Why did you run out?” I ask, my voice gentler. “I’ve been worried as fuck.”
Her smile fades, and she swallows. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You said this is about your vagina.”
She nods.
“And we were kind of right there.”
She nods again. Her cheeks flush, and her gaze drops to my mouth.
“Did I hurt you?” I finally manage to grind out.
She shakes her head. “No. You didn’t.”
I breathe out.
“But I was worried you might.”
My entire body tenses and I step back instinctively.
She reaches out and grabs my arm. “No! Wait! That came out wrong,” she says. “I don’t think you would ever hurt me on purpose. It’s just that…”
I wait, my stomach churning.
“Fuck,” she mutters. Then she takes a breath and says, “Declan, I have pelvic pain—specifically, vaginismus. The muscles around my vagina are tight and sore, and they spasm sometimes. Especially if there’s a chance of…
” She stops and wrinkles her nose. “Penetration,” she manages.
“Like a pelvic exam or using a tampon or…sex.” She blows out a breath.
“It makes sex painful and difficult.” She takes another breath, seeming relieved to have gotten that out.
“I have been seeing Thea ever since I moved here, and we’ve been working on it.
That’s why I’m here today. Because what happened on my couch is the first time anything even close to sex with another person has happened in a really long time, and yes, I thought I was dreaming, and so when I woke up and realized I wasn’t and that things might progress, I kind of panicked.
And I’m really sorry, and that’s not your fault, and you didn’t do anything wrong. ”
I’m just staring at her. She still has tear tracks on her cheeks, and the words pain, and panicked keep rattling around in my brain.
Sex is painful and difficult for her.
Jesus Christ. I had my mouth on her most private parts, and she wasn’t even fully conscious. Not only that, but that private part is painful.
“I don’t know what to say,” I finally manage.
Now she’s the one who steps forward. “You don’t have to say anything. I handled it really badly. And this is something we should’ve talked about before now. But in my defense, I thought maybe we would just get divorced, and it wouldn’t be an issue.”
Right. The divorce she wants would take care of the fact that she can’t have sex because it hurts.
I should leave her the fuck alone.
Still, I ask, “Is this from your injury?”
She lifts a shoulder. “I’ve always had some pelvic pain going clear back to high school.
And once I was sexually active, it would be a little bit of an issue sometimes.
But the fall, the spinal irritation, the fractures, and all of the inflammation and surgeries and everything have definitely made everything even tighter and more sensitive.
Plus, there’s definitely a mental aspect to it.
All those months of pain and dysfunction in that area make me subconsciously associate touch, movement, and pressure there with pain and bad things.
But it’s getting a lot better. Thea has helped me so much. ”
She actually tries to smile at me. As if trying to make me feel better.
This woman shouldn’t have to make anyone else feel better about anything.
What I know about her injury is bad enough. To know that she had chronic pain beforehand that got worse, pain that has made something that is supposed to be one of the most pleasurable things in life into something to panic over makes my stomach knot.
Painful sex, or being unable to have sex at all, would obviously make someone nervous if they were forced into a marriage.
“What do you need?” I ask her.
Please be hungry. Please be fucking hungry so I can feed you. That’s something I can easily take care of.
She shrugs. “Um…well…maybe we could go home?”
Yes. I can do that. I can take her home. Thank you, God.
“Definitely.”
But I have to do more. I have to take care of her. I have to make things better. Somehow. Clearly there’s only so much I can do, but I will do everything I can.
Thea gives us wide-eyed looks on the way out, but Astrid gives her a big smile on the way out as if everything is great.
I’m sure my expression is closer to how people look on their way to the guillotine.
It’s not that I need to have sex with Astrid to be happy.
Oh, I fucking want to have sex with Astrid. Of course.
But I can be content with my hand just as I have been for the past year and eight months.
I can live with this woman for the rest of my life and be happy just to take care of her and see her smile.
But that’s the thing.
She has to let me live with her.
And she has to let me take care of her.
Somehow.
I have to make her happy and make her life better. Period. I. Have. To.
Even before we married, I had an instinctual need to care for her. I’ve felt that way about all of my siblings and hers since I left Cara. It’s been my single driving force.
Then Astrid got hurt, and it got amped up for her.
Then she almost married someone else, and I became a man obsessed.
Once she was my wife, there was no way I could be any other way.
And now that we’re in the same zip code again, and I’ve seen her happy and discovering who she is in this town with these people, I can’t change.
If I am destined to be abstinent from here on, then that’s how it will be.
I can also absolutely love her and take care of her from a distance if that’s what she wants.
I’ve been doing that for almost two years now.
By the time we pull into her driveway, I have a plan. For tonight at least.
I need to show her that I can be okay with things just as they are.
I punch in the code on the front door, then let her step in ahead of me.
“Why don’t you go up and take a bath or something?” I ask.
Some time alone and self-care is surely a good call. And I need some time to get the rest of my plan in place.
“Then you can get into some comfortable clothes to relax in.”
Her brows are arched, but she must see something in my expression—probably desperation—that makes her nod.
She might believe that I’m the one who needs a little time alone to process.
She’s not entirely wrong.
“Sounds great,” she says. “We can…talk…more later?”
“Sure. Anything you want.” I mean that with everything in me.
She gives me a smile, then shocks me by lifting on tiptoe and kissing my cheek. “Okay.”
I feel my pulse beating so hard I swear she can hear it. I watch her ascend the stairs.
Fuck.
She’s in pain.
I grip my hand into a fist, take a deep breath, then pull my phone out of my pocket and text Miles.
I need Nora’s phone number.