Chapter 33
For the third Sunday evening in a row, Tabitha climbed the steps to her apartment after eating dinner with the Jennings family, Miles behind her silent and steady and so seemingly patient it was as if he had no wants of his own.
She hadn’t planned on taking him up on his offer two weeks ago to slow things down physically between them. But when he’d walked her to her door after they’d eaten dinner with his family for the first time, she’d found herself thanking him for a lovely evening.
Then she’d bid him goodnight in a polite and clear dismissal.
She hadn’t meant for it to be a test. Another one put in play for him to prove himself. One set up as yet another obstacle to get in the way of their moving forward.
But somehow, that was exactly what she’d done.
Because while she absolutely wanted all the same things he did—the spending time together and getting to know each other as they were now and, most especially, the moving forward part—she wasn’t completely convinced it was the best idea.
She wanted to believe every word he’d said about his reasons for not telling his family about her, and how he was ready to move forward. And she was doing her best to trust him.
But she didn’t know how.
So, she tested him, starting with that first night.
When he’d kissed her on the cheek, reminded her to lock the door after him and left with the promise to text her.
Which he’d done an hour later, thanking her for coming to dinner with him, and telling her he hoped she slept well.
He’d continued to text her daily since then, telling her good morning or hoping she had a good day at work. And despite their opposite work schedules—he worked more nights during the summer to cover for his coworkers on vacation—they’d met several times each week for coffee and twice for early dinner, both times at his brother’s restaurant.
There was no other way to say it, and there certainly was no use denying it.
She and Miles were dating.
When they’d been together before, they hadn’t dated so much as latched on to each other. They were two lonely, lost, and codependent people looking for someone to cling to. She’d gone home with him after their first date and moved in a week later.
Everything between them had been too much. Too fast. Too desperate.
This slow, steady pace was much better. Safer.
Made it easier for them to pretend they were putting in the emotional work, when what they were really doing was still hiding.
Hiding behind coffee dates and small talk and the pretense that they could move forward without having to reveal themselves fully. That they could keep their remaining secrets tucked away. That they wouldn’t have to share the deepest, truest parts of themselves.
That peeling themselves open, revealing their innermost selves for the other to see wouldn’t hurt.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she unlocked her door, opened it, and took a deep breath.
“Do you want to come in?” she asked in a rush.
He nodded and took a step forward, only to stop and raise an eyebrow at her. “Do you want me to come in?”
“I must. I just invited you to do so.”
The right side of his mouth turned up—his grins were coming more often these days, though they remained slow and hesitant, as if he wasn’t certain he deserved to be happy enough to indulge in one.
“You did,” he agreed. “But you’re also blocking the doorway.”
She glanced down at herself and realized she was, indeed, standing in the middle of the doorway, her arms crossed.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, then took a step back. Then another. “Please. Come in.”
He studied her a moment. Whatever he saw on her face had him stepping inside. He lifted the glass food containers in his hands. “Want me to put these in the fridge?”
She nodded.
Chewed on her lower lip while he crossed to the fridge. There’d been no surprises between them over the last two weeks. No big revelations from either side. They’d kept things superficial and surface level, never digging too deep. Neither asking too many questions.
For all his claims about wanting to hear about her life since she’d left him, his hope that she’d share more of her secrets with him, he hadn’t pushed.
She should be glad they were taking these small steps, no matter how tiny they were. Should want to continue this pace, no matter how glacial.
She shouldn’t make waves or ask for more.
But they weren’t moving forward.
They were standing still.
“Tell me something true,” she said to his back as he put the containers in the fridge.
He stilled momentarily, then straightened. Shut the door.
Facing her, he tipped his head to the side. “What?”
She wiped her palms down the sides of her shorts. “We’re supposed to be moving forward, but we’re not. We’re where we started except for a few hesitant truths. A couple whispered confessions. It’s like we’re… stuck. Stuck repeating the same mistakes. Holding on to doubts and distrust. Leaving us in the same pattern we were in before.”
“I thought it would be easier,” he said, surprising her with his quiet admission. “I thought I’d be able to let the past go, just because I wanted to. But maybe you’re right. Maybe our old patterns are too strong, too deeply enmeshed to ever change. No matter how much we want them to.” His gaze on hers was intense. Solemn. “And I do want to.”
“I want to, too. And maybe you’re right…”
But she couldn’t finish that thought. She hated the mere idea of giving up.
Hated the idea of giving him up when he was there, right there with her. When he was so close to being hers again.
“Or maybe,” she continued, “those patterns just need something big, something explosive to break them. Maybe we need to be brave enough to blow them to smithereens and then, when the pieces are scattered, we can see if there’s anything left to salvage. If there are enough left intact to rearrange them into a new pattern. One that’ll work better for us.”
“Something explosive, huh? Like the truth?”
“Something like the truth.” She took a deep breath, and an even bigger leap of faith. “What do you say, Miles? Want to blow this thing up with me?”
“Yeah,” he said, low and gruff. “I want to blow this thing up with you.”
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay…”
She closed the distance between them. Other than the kiss on her cheek he’d given her two weeks ago, Miles hadn’t initiated any physical contact with her. There’d been no more make-out sessions. They hadn’t so much as held hands.
She’d been grateful for his restraint even as she’d craved his touch.
The lines between past and present became too blurred when he touched her. It was too easy to let the attraction between them burn everything else away.
To pretend it was enough.
She took his left hand and pressed it against the middle of her chest. His palm flattened against the silky material of her halter top. Over her heart. She linked the fingers of her left hand through his right one, then raised her free hand to his chest, laying it flat above his heart.
“This is real,” she told him. “This is true. The way your hand in mine grounds me. Steadies me for whatever happens next. The way my heart skips a beat or speeds up based on something you say. This is real,” she repeated. “This is true. And I want you to feel it. No more hiding.”
It was a vow. Her promise to him.
He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “No more hiding.”
Giving that promise back to her.
Now the real test.
Seeing if either of them kept it.
Her fingers curled into the soft material of his shirt. “Miles, please tell me something true.”
***
Even though he’d meant the words and promises he’d made, Miles’s first thought was to deny her. To stay hidden.
But they’d come too far for him to let fear have a say.
“What about?” he asked, giving her the choice of which truth he shared.
Giving her that power.
She tipped her head to the side, the end of her ponytail sliding over her shoulder as she considered his question.
As if there were many, many truths she wanted from him, and was having a difficult time picking just one.
“Why haven’t you told your family about your panic attacks?”
He stared at her, his hand twitching on her chest. Well, fuck.
She’d gone straight for the jugular.
And she’d been smart, having them connected physically this way, their hands over each other’s hearts. He was certain she felt his speed up at her question. How hard it was thumping.
Christ, this was almost as effective as being hooked up to a lie detector.
“How do you know I haven’t?”
“Have you?”
“They’re not as bad,” he said in answer. “I haven’t had a full-blown panic attack in weeks.” Not since the one he’d had in the car with her that night in Sonny’s parking lot. “If one does start, I use the 5-4-3-2-1 method you taught me. It helps.”
It’d helped more when she’d been there, but he didn’t want her to think the only reason he wanted to spend time with her was on the off chance he spiraled.
Her expression softened. “I’m glad. But that’s just one tool, there are others that might help you more. Have you considered therapy?”
“Yes.”
“Have you gone?” she asked when he remained silent.“No.”
She patted his chest, as if she could feel the rising tension inside of him. The way everything inside of him was clamping down with denial.
Wanting to keep his deepest secrets locked away.
“You know,” she said, “the stigma surrounding men getting help for their mental health has lessened over the years. No one is going to think less of you if you ask for help.”
“I know. That’s not why I haven’t gone.”
“Then why?”
“I just…” He stopped. Swallowed, then shook his head. He wanted to beg her to ask him something else. Something easier.
He’d never shared these particular fears with anyone.
Wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to.
But she was right. They were stuck.
And he really did want them to move forward.
“I haven’t gone because I don’t want to drag up the past. I don’t want to think about it. Don’t want to delve too deeply into why I spiral or what it means. I’m not sure I can handle it.”
“That’s valid. And completely understandable. But the pain inside of us won’t go away on its own. It needs our attention to heal.”
“I’m not sure whatever’s broken inside of me can be healed. And it’s easier to pretend I’m already whole.”
“I get that. But pretending can only take you so far.” Her smile was small and rueful. “Believe me. I know. After a while, being someone you’re not is exhausting. And not worth the effort it takes to keep up whatever persona you’ve adopted. Whatever lies you’re telling yourself. Or others.”
“I’m not lying to anyone. I’m just not telling everyone every thought or feeling I have.”
She raised her eyebrows. Kept her tone mild. “So pretending is only lying when I do it?”
He scowled. Opened his mouth.
Shut it.
Shit.
Called out again.
“I’ve been pretending and lying for so long,” he whispered, “I’m not even sure who I’ll be if I do heal. If I do start telling the truth.”
“You’ll be you,” she said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. The truest. “You’ll be confident and stubborn and proud. Impatient and overprotective and bossy.”
His eyebrows raised. “That’s quite the list. Did my family help you make it?”
She patted his chest again, this one a shut it and listen type of pat. “You’ll be you,” she repeated. “A man who loves his family more than anything. Who wants to keep everyone safe from all harm. Who, day after day, willingly puts his own life on the line for others.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “That’s the job.” Kept his hand on her chest, the feel of her heart beating keeping him steady. “That’s not me.”
“It’s one hundred percent you. You see things in black and white, right or wrong, and have a hard time giving second chances. And you’re smart. Smart enough to know that while you’d love nothing more than to control every aspect of Verity’s life, she needs to make her own decisions. And mistakes.”
“Only because she never listens to me anyway,” he grumbled, the back of his neck warm.
This was the dangerous part about bringing Tabitha to Sunday family dinners. She saw too much. Such as how he interacted with his family. The dynamics between them. How he was trying to step back more when it came to Verity.
These past three weeks, Tabitha had been privy to his life in ways she’d never been before.
Ways he’d never allowed her before.
A third pat, this one of the you keep telling yourself that variety. “You’re insightful. You see what people need and you do your best to give it to them. Like hearing that your ex-girlfriend ate dinner alone at a local bar most nights and you inviting her to your family’s dinner in the hopes that she might become friends with your brother’s girlfriend.”
That warmth spread around to his throat. Climbed his face. The way this woman read him like a fucking book should have terrified him.
He shouldn’t like it. Shouldn’t like how it made him feel seen. Known.
But he did. He liked it a lot.
“I thought you and Willow would hit it off. That’s all.”
And they had. Enough that they’d taken a yoga class together twice and gone for coffee after.
“Yes, because we have so much in common. What with us both being white, cisgender women and all.”
“I didn’t want you to be alone. I hate the thought of you being lonely.”
“See? That’s exactly what I mean. You gave me something I wanted, without me having to ask for it. You’re generous. Thoughtful. And kind.”
“My motives weren’t completely altruistic. I also didn’t want you alone at The Cockeyed Chameleon because I didn’t want you being hit on by a bunch of assholes.” He paused. “And I really didn’t want to take the chance that one of those assholes might be a decent guy. Or that you might become interested in one of them.”
“No worries,” she assured him solemnly. “There’s only one asshole I’m interested in.”
He snorted out a surprised laugh at her teasing, and she looked so pleased with herself, so proud, he couldn’t help but duck his head and press a warm, soft kiss to her mouth.
“Good to know,” he murmured. “But it was still wrong of me. I do realize I don’t own you or your time, and I’m sure as hell not in control of who you talk to.”
“No, you’re not. But it’s nice, realizing you’re just as human as I am. Just as I have to take the blame for not realizing it before. For putting you on a pedestal and crowning you King of Morality and all that was Good and Decent and Right in the World. I made sure you were so far above me in every way, I’d never be able to reach you, no matter how high I climbed. And since I’d never be able to ascend to those heights, I could keep lying and hiding and playing it safe.”
“But Miles…” She slid her hand to his cheek. Searched his eyes. “No one expects you to be perfect. I don’t expect you to be perfect. I like you. Just as you are. And I want to keep getting to know you, who you are now. Not who you’re pretending to be. Who. You. Are. And I hope that you’ll trust me enough to let me.”