Chapter Thirty-Four
Bernie
Humanity’s fundamental failure is our inability to use logic when it would most benefit us. I can literally feel my crazy brimming under the surface, ready to spill out and ruin things.
My hormones throwing fuel onto the fire and gleefully dancing around it.
I raise my face under the water to feel the sting of the hot water on my eyelids.
Logically, I know I need more time to cool off. I need to not freak out. I need to list out why Stephen is an asshole that can’t be trusted and why Ashish is not. I need to tell Ash what happened and open myself up to figuring it out together. I need to prepare myself and call Gail and figure out what I will do if Stephen actually acts on these threats.
But—I am not a logical person right now. I am a broken mess who can’t stop thinking about Stephen’s insinuation that Ash is using me, just like he did. That I’m not worth loving just for me. That he thinks he owns me. That I might lose my job.
Again.
The bathroom door creaks open, and I squeeze my eyes tighter.
It’s not his fault, it’s not his fault, I chant to myself.
I repeat it over and over when I feel his hands wrap hesitantly around my waist and pull me back into his chest.
I did that. I made him scared of me—because I’m fucking crazy.
“Morning, sunshine,” he says, tucking his chin into my neck and standing with me under the water.
“Not so sunny today,” I tell the tiles in front of me.
Ash kisses the side of my neck. “That’s okay, you don’t need to be sunny for me.”
I suck in humid air and lean back into him.
Ash is just too good for me.
His arms crisscross over my stomach and pull me in tighter. “Are you okay?”
“No–” I don’t know what else to say. I’m freaking out. I wiggle out of his arms and grab my towel, stepping out of the stall and wrapping it around myself. “I’m done.”
Collecting my toiletries off the counter, I hustle out of the bathroom. My clothes stick to my skin because I’m not totally dry, but I need clothes. I need a barrier. I need to prepare myself for the inevitable truth that this isn’t going to work out.
I slump onto the end of the bed before I fall over. My pants drag against my legs as I huff in frustration.
Warm morning sun shines through the window on my face and I close my eyes. Maybe the vitamin D will help me be less crazy. More logical. Sliding my hands over the bright patches of sun on the bed, I remember I need to call my mom. We were supposed to have dinner with her last night.
Until Stephen ruined everything.
Snagging a loose thread, I wrap it around my finger until the tip turns purple. I glance at the clock when it snaps. Only 10.
We still have an hour before we have to check out and then get to the airport. I’m going back to Indiana today and Ash is leaving to go back to Boston. We’re supposed to meet next week in San Diego. Ash registered us for a century bike race for Christmas, and we’ve been training together for the last three months.
I should just let him go alone.
He takes longer in the shower than I expect, and I try to calm down while I smooth moisturizer and sunscreen on my face.
Be calm , I plead with myself. Be fucking logical. It’s not his fault.
He exits the bathroom in silence, drying and slowly getting dressed. He watches me as he packs his suitcase and rolls it so it rests next to mine. Compulsively I smooth the comforter, looking for another thread. Anything to occupy my hands. The mattress dips next to me, and his large hand slides across the surface, resting next to mine. Not touching but close.
Looking up, I stare at our reflection in the long mirror in the corner of the hotel room. This is a nice place, with boutique motel vibes and little decorative touches that make it feel trendy. I don’t really see any of them, just Ash’s eyes, entirely too serious.
I did that. I made him wary.
But what if he’s that way because he has something to hide? Because there’s a tiny piece of truth in what Stephen told me. It makes more sense than the alternative, that he actually loves me. That we’re like the sunlight on my skin, warm and bright.
His reflection shakes his head slowly, eyes locked with mine—maybe subliminally trying to tell me to calm the fuck down.
“Why did you reach out to Stephen before submitting your Department of Ed grant?” The words are barely audible.
“Bernie,” he pleads with me, his pinky reaching out to touch my hand.
“Why?”
He sighs. “I found your white paper after your conference panel. I’d written the grant, then reached out to consult.”
“Why did you email Stephen and not me? I was the first author.”
His eyebrows lower as he concentrates on my face. His head tilts slightly. “Because he was the corresponding author.”
Be logical, Bernie .
Stephen had insisted on being the corresponding author, assuring me that if anyone reached out, I would be involved. Hot angry emotion sizzles under my skin, and I struggle to keep my face calm, to keep my voice calm.
“How much money are you making off of this grant?”
Two lines appear between his eyes like he’s confused. “Bernie, you know that we’re not really making a profit off of this–”
“At Thanksgiving, Ravi said I was famous. Everyone told me how much you had talked about me. Why did he say that?”
“Bernie, I–”
“Why did he say that?”
He slides his hands down his jeans, “Because I’ve been besotted with you? Because your work—the grant—created a lot of changes in our firm? This grant got us national attention. We-we got money from the grant but also new clients we might not otherwise have had the opportunity to pitch to.”
“So, this is what?” I wave between us, my fingers flicking, highlighting how bitter I sound.
“I don’t understand.” He turns to look at me, ready to be face-to-face, and I drag my eyes away from the mirror. His eyebrows lower, creasing in the middle. I think it's the first time I’ve actually seen him look anything close to angry.
“Why are you with me then?”
“Bernie.” That crease gets a little deeper, his eyebrows even lower. I watch his lips dip into a frown, and he raises his hands to cup either side of my face. His hands are warm and dry, holding my cheeks a little too tightly. “What the hell? This shit show has nothing to do with us, how I feel about you. I mean, your work was good, but we won that grant because of so many variables.”
He wouldn’t be angry if he didn’t have something to hide, right?
Or maybe he’s angry because I really am crazy. I can feel myself deflating in front of him. “I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?”
“I don’t think I can get past this. I can’t be with you.”
“What are you talking about? Y-you belong with me.”
Delayed rage simmers in my chest, and Ash’s words bring on the phantom pressure from Stephen’s fingers on my shoulders—igniting it. “I don’t belong to anyone,” I say evenly.
Ash leans his forehead against mine.
“Hear me. Not belong to me , Bernie. With me. Please, I had nothing to do with this. I literally fulfilled the goal of academic work. I got inspired, adapted it, and cited you. What the fuck!” he growls before pushing to his feet to stalk away from me.
I flinch at the words. His anger is almost comforting. Like a confirmation. If he wasn’t guilty, he wouldn’t be angry.
He doesn’t belong in this mess. My mess.
“Whatever the fuck Graham said to you, you need to let it go. This bullshit has nothing to do with my feelings for you.”
Be logical, I plead with myself, take a breather.
But I can’t, because he’s pacing, and I can’t regulate, so I scream, “I don’t believe you!”
Ash stops like I’ve struck him and looks at me with all the hurt I feel. “I can’t do this with you again, Bernie. I can’t. I’ve laid it all out there for you. I’ve moved to fucking Indiana. I’ve left my brother to run our business. I’m not there for my family so I can be with you. I told my brother I’m not even sure if I’m moving back to the East Coast for you. And you’re telling me that you don’t believe that I’m not involved in Graham’s bullshit. That you don’t believe I’m in love with you?”
“I’m going to lose everything. You don’t understand,” I cry, fat angry tears running down my face.
“How am I supposed to understand when you won’t tell me? I deserve more than a few freaking pieces of the Bernadette puzzle. You’re setting me up to fail.”
Shame washes over me, and I look at the floor instead of his face. I watch as he paces, waiting for me to say something.
Say something, I plead with myself.
But I can’t. I can’t be logical, because I’m consumed by this full-body hurt. Hurt from Stephen for crushing my dreams and my heart. And maybe this phantom hurt that’s manifested by the fear that Ash is going to do it again. It’s inevitable—because I’m not worth it.
His shoes pause in front of me, the toes digging into the carpet like he’s leaning toward me but then pulling himself back. I can almost see him deflate, the hem of his pants moving slightly lower.
Ash waits for one more beat, then his shoes move away. The soft roll of a suitcase and the click on the door opening confirm he’s going to do what I always thought he would.
Leave.
“Bernie, I don’t doubt that you’re the love of my life. But I deserve more than this. I deserve someone willing to at least work through it. I-I’m going to head to the airport early. I need some space. When I get back from Boston, we can talk, ok?”
I thought I’d experienced the low of lows in my life, but I was wrong; my new low is Ashish walking out of our hotel room and me doing nothing to stop him. I crumble onto the mattress and weep because this time, I have no one to blame but myself.